The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the Night

Thou, spirit of the spangled night!I woo thee from the watchtower high,Where thou dost sit to guide the barkOf lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,The distant main is moaning low;Come, let us sit and weave a song--A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,But sweeter far the solemn calmThat marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,And never human voice have heard;I've pass'd here many a lonely year,A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,From sultry noon's hot beams; and IHave knelt before my wicker door,To sing my evening song.

And I have hail'd the gray morn high,On the blue mountain's misty brow,And tried to tune my little reedTo hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,As when upon the ocean shoreI hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The dayspring brings not joy to me,The moon it whispers not of peace;But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often thinkAërial voices answer me;And oh! I am not then alone--A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter windsHowl in the woods that clothe my cave,I lay me on my lonely mat,And pleasant are my dreams.

And fancy gives me back my wife;And fancy gives me back my child;She gives me back my little home,And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour,That calls me from the dream of bliss,To find myself still lone, and hearThe same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,The whispering of the boding trees,The brook's eternal flow, and oftThe condor's hollow scream.