For works with similar titles, see Night.
Draw down thy misty curtains, "solemn night,"
Dim the fierce fires which still illume the west;
While stars look down with sweet though distant light,
Bring to each weary thing its hour of rest:
Sleep to the little song-bird in its nest,
Dew to young blossoms, bending on the tree;
Call home, on busy wing, the housewife bee,
And seal up infant eyes, in fond arms pressed.
Be thine, to soothe earth's worn and weary child,
With hours of sweet and undisturbed repose—
Still human hearts, that beat with wants and woes,
And lull a thousand griefs; physician mild!
The couch of pain with healthful visions bless,
And cure all ills in deep forgetfulness.
NIGHT.
Draw down thy misty curtains, "solemn night,"
Dim the fierce fires which still illume the west;
While stars look down with sweet though distant light,
Bring to each weary thing its hour of rest:
Sleep to the little song-bird in its nest,
Dew to young blossoms, bending on the tree;
Call home, on busy wing, the housewife bee,
And seal up infant eyes, in fond arms pressed.
Be thine, to soothe earth's worn and weary child,
With hours of sweet and undisturbed repose—
Still human hearts, that beat with wants and woes,
And lull a thousand griefs; physician mild!
The couch of pain with healthful visions bless,
And cure all ills in deep forgetfulness.