Midnight has stol’n upon me! sound is none,

Save when light, tinkling cinders, one by one,

Fall from my fire; or its low, fluttering blaze,

A faint and fitful noise at times betrays;

Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught

At intervals. It is the hour of thought!

Canst thou then marvel, now that thought is free,

Memory should wake, and Fancy fly to thee?—

That she should paint thee, wrapp’d in peaceful sleep?

While round thy happy pillow spirits keep

Their post unseen: those watchers of the night,

Who, o’er the innocent, with fond delight

Stand centinels, and, by their guardian power,

Preserve from evil, Virtue's slumbering hour.

Calm, healthful, and refreshing be thy rest!

And be thy dreams as blissful, as e’er blest,

In Fancy's sweetest, purest, loveliest mood,

The hours of stillness and of solitude!