Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watchtower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.
The winds are whistling o’er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song--
A melancholy song!
Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide’s fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm
That marks thy mournful reign.
I’ve pass’d here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I’ve pass’d here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.
And I have linger’d in the shade,
From sultry noon’s hot beams; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my evening song.
And I have hail’d the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain’s misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed
To hymns of harmony.
But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore
I hail’d thy star-beam mild.
The dayspring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,
My woes are mix’d with joy.
And then I talk, and often think
Aërial voices answer me;
And oh! I am not then alone--
A solitary man.
And when the blustering winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,
I lay me on my lonely mat,
And pleasant are my dreams.
And fancy gives me back my wife;
And fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.
Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again.
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brook’s eternal flow, and oft
The condor’s hollow scream.