NIGHT.
FROM THE ITALIAN.
Night dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming star
Its silent place assigns in yonder sky;
The moon walks forth, and fields and groves afar,
Touched by her light, in silver beauty lie
In solemn peace, that no sound comes to mar;
Hamlets and peopled cities slumber nigh;
While on this rock, in meditation’s mien,
Lord of the unconscious world, I sit unseen.
How deep the quiet of this pensive hour!
Nature bids labor cease—and all obey.
How sweet this stillness, in its magic power
O’er hearts that know her voice and own her sway!
Stillness unbroken, save when from the flower
The whirring locust takes his upward way;
And murmuring o’er the verdant turf is heard
The passing brook—or leaf by breezes stirred.
Borne on the pinions of night’s freshening air,
Unfettered thoughts with calm reflection come;
And fancy’s train, that shuns the daylight glare,
To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens in gloom;
Now tranquil joys, and hopes untouched by care,
Within my bosom throng to seek a home;
While far around the brooding darkness spreads,
And o’er the soul its pleasing sadness sheds.
Anonymous Translation. Ippolito Pindemonte, 1753–1828.