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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
241
No sound is on the summer-seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze
Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
—That boat has reach'd the silent bay,
The dashing oar has ceased to play,
The breeze has murmured and has died
In forest-shades, on ocean's tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound,
And midnight spreads o'er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane,
To break on nature's sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar,
High o'er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore,
For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres!
