THE SKEPTIC'S LAST NIGHT.
'Twas night, the midnight hour:
A thousand stars lit up the calm blue vault
Of heaven. The moon, so fitly named
The Regent of the sky, sat like a queen
Amid her glittering train, shedding her
Silvery rays upon a stately mansion,
One of England's proudest homes. Around were
Noble trees, yea, rugged oaks, that bore upon
Their brows the age of centuries; broad walks,
Reflecting back a thousand rays from many
Tinted shells; sweet flowers, whose gentle breath
Went floating out like incense on the air;
Bright founts and lovely streams were murmuring
On, like strains of distant music. All, all
Was hushed: no sound disturbed the sleeping
A thousand stars lit up the calm blue vault
Of heaven. The moon, so fitly named
The Regent of the sky, sat like a queen
Amid her glittering train, shedding her
Silvery rays upon a stately mansion,
One of England's proudest homes. Around were
Noble trees, yea, rugged oaks, that bore upon
Their brows the age of centuries; broad walks,
Reflecting back a thousand rays from many
Tinted shells; sweet flowers, whose gentle breath
Went floating out like incense on the air;
Bright founts and lovely streams were murmuring
On, like strains of distant music. All, all
Was hushed: no sound disturbed the sleeping
