To break the midnight air; tho' the rais'd ear,
Intenſely liſtening, drinks in every breath.
How deep the ſilence yet how loud the praiſe!
But are they ſilent all? or is there not
A tongue in every ſtar that talks with man,
And wooes him to be wife; nor wooes in vain:
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And wiſdom mounts her zenith with the ſtars.
At this ſtill hour the ſelf-collected ſoul
Turns inward, and beholds a ſtranger there
Of high deſcent, and more than mortal rank;
An embryo God; a ſpark of fire divine,
Which muſt burn on for ages, when the ſun,
(Fair tranſitory creature of a day!)
Has clos'd his golden eye, and wrap'd in ſhades
Forgets his wonted journey thro' the eaſt.
Ye citadels of light, and ſeats of Gods!
Perhaps my future home, from whence the ſoul
