And hush thy doleful strains.” 
It is the dawn.  Faint crimson streaks
  The dewy, orient sky,
Like virtue’s blush, on maiden cheeks,
  Ah! sweet and peerless dye. 
At last—­the sun, an Eastern king,
  Comes forth in rested pride;
And soars, with bright and burning wing,
  Above the hill and tide. 
Above yon Blue Ridge, towering piles,
  Uptorn by Nature’s throe—­
He speeds, he speeds, through myriad miles,
  To his meridian glow. 
The birds sink down, amid the copse,
  And sing a feeble song;
At last, each sound, on sudden, stops,
  And Silence holds the throng. 
But Evening, comes, a sober maid,
  With one bright, starry eye;
And throws her mantle—­star-inlaid—­
  Upon the silent sky. 
It is night’s noon.  How dark, how vast,
  Yon boundless vault appears;
A shadow o’er the earth is cast,
  That wakes the spirit’s fears
How death-like hushed! all life seems dead,
  Does Nature live at all? 
Ah, truest symbol! it has said,
  “The hush—­the gloom—­the Pall!”
Day is the varying life of Man,—­
  Some sunshine—­clouds again—­
Night is his death—­which erst began
  When Sin began to reign. 
Dark, spectral Night!  I sing of thee;
  For, thou art lovely, too—­
And Death will wake the melody
  Of him whose life was true. 
To walk upon the azure sea,
  It is a thing of bliss;
When skies are bright, and sails are free
  And smiling wavelets kiss. 
How grandly leans the ship, a queen,
  Above the sparkling tide—­
With joy she walks the watery scene,
  A thing of fear and pride. 
To scale the crown of vast Blue Ridge,
  And eye the world below—­
Farm—­river—­ravine—­wiry bridge—­
  And soaring crane and crow—­
And misty woods—­and fields afar—­
  Neat villages and towns—­
Blest herds and flocks no beast can mar,
  That nibble sunny downs. 
Oh! that is, sure, a pleasant thing,
  And bathes the soul in joy;
And many a grief-worn man ’twould bring,
  To be once more a boy. 
’Tis sweet to rove, at twilight dim,
  Beside an aldered stream,
To list thy lady’s evening hymn,
  ’Neath starlight’s trembling gleam. 
’Tis sweet to sit within a bower,
  Inwrought with flower and vine,
What time along yon mountain tower,
  The shades of eve decline. 
’Tis sweet to hear the nightingale,
  O’erflow the forest shade,
With harmony which might avail,
  To win a Dis-stole maid. 
’Twere sweet to cleave the snowy foam,
  With ship and spirit free,
Where tropic spices ever roam,
  The Caribbean sea. 
’Twere sweet to sail by Yemen’s shore,
  And touch that golden strand,
Where Indus’ river wanders o’er,
  Its glittering, golden sand. 
Oh!  Nature! thou art far above,
  The painter’s, Poet’s pride—­
Thou art the glorious Child of Love—­
  Adorned a heavenly bride.