XXXVIII.
A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers
The shades of elder bards; a night to hold
Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old;
A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould,
To strew sweet flowers—for revellers to fill
And wreathe the cup—for sorrows to be told
Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still!
It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!