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THE POSTILION[18] (1833)
Passing lovely was the night,
Silver clouds flew o'er us,
Spring, methought, with splendor dight
Led the happy chorus.
Sleep-entranced lay wood and dale,
Empty now each by-way;
No one but the moonlight pale
Roamed upon the highway.
Breezes wandering in the gloom
Soft their footsteps numbered
Through Dame Nature's sleeping-room
Where her children slumbered.
Timidly the brook stole by,
While the beds of blossom
Breathed their perfume joyously
On the still night's bosom.
My postilion, heedless all,
Cracked his whip most gaily,
And his merry trumpet-call
Rang o'er hill and valley.
Hoofs beat steadily the while,
As the horses gamboled,
And along the shady aisle
Spiritedly rambled.
Grove and meadow gliding past
Vanished at a glimmer:
Peaceful towns were gone as fast,
Like to dreams that shimmer.
Midway in the Maytide trance
Tombs were shining whitely;
'Twas the churchyard met our glance—
None might view it lightly.