Rigid in thought, and motionless, he stands;
Nor quits his theme, or posture, till the sun 190
(Rude drunkard rising rosy from the main!)
Disturbs his nobler intellectual beam,
And gives him to the tumult of the world.
Hail, precious moments! stolen from the black waste
Of murder’d time! Auspicious midnight! hail!
The world excluded, every passion hush’d,
And open’d a calm intercourse with Heaven,
Here the soul sits in council; ponders past,