Even the lonely whip-poor-will suppress’d,
And droop’d his head upon his rounded breast.
Silence and darkness o’er the landscape reign’d;
All nature was in mournful sable drest;
The mountain rivulets seem’d all enchain’d,
Or, with a stealing step, the distant vallies gain’d.
II.
Silence is eloquent. It speaketh to the heart;
It hath a potent language, all its own,
Which bids the tear of sorrow freely start.