Creation sleeps as beautiful as Death,
When Death has most of beauty - not a sound
Stirs the still silver; but a spirit's breath,
Without a voice, half seems to float around,
Breathing mute oracles from the blue profound,
Where the sweet Lady of the Night rides high,
With a pale golden halo chastely crown'd:-
Forgive the dream, if, under such a sky,
Fancy hath heard sidereal harmony-
The faint, far music of the hymning spheres!
Forgive the dream, if e'er the enthusiast's eye
Hath turned awhile from earthly hopes or fears,
To learn the language of that mystic scroll,
And read the starry secrets of the pole!
Rev. John Johns C 1825
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