HUSHED is the world in night and sleep,
Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep,
Were music's faintest breath.
Descend, bright Visions! from aerial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals past,
Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
Oh! bear your softest balm to those,
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead,
To them that world of peace disclose,
Where the bright soul is fled:
Where Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land,
On your light wings the exile bear;
To feel once more his heart expand,
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven's own music, sweet.
But oh! with Fancy's brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard's repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft his spirit to its native skies,
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions, from your airy bower,
Dark, silent, solemn, is your favourite hour.