Tis sweet to roam alone
In some sequestered wood,
When slumbering Echo hears no sound
When Night and Silence spread around
A holy solitude;
When through the vales,
Sweep fitfully along in melancholy mood.
O! in that solemn hour,
When starry Night has flung
Her balmy mantle o’er the dale,
And when the love-lorn nightingale
Her last complaint has sung;
When all is still,
O’er grove and hill,
O! then the spirit wakes, and Silence hath a tongue!
Silence, on dusky wing,
Recals the dim years fled,
Before the pensive spirit move
Visions of friendship and of love,
Thoughts of the peaceful dead,
Who, though they sleep
In darkness deep,
Lie not forgotten in their quiet bed.
Silence awakens Hope,
That kind consoling light,
Which wipes away the tear of woe,
That Memory might have caused to flow,
And gladden’s Sorrow’s night;
Like a gay dream,
Her cheering beam
Dispels the gathering mist, and all again is bright.
Silence is eloquent;
It whispers to the mind;
Beneath your beam, ye lovely stars,
Fancy forgets life’s petty jars.
And leaves dull earth behind;
With daring eye
It soars on high,
Flies o’er the boundless heaven, and treads the stormy wind.