From yonder tower the solemn bell has tolled
Another requiem to departing time;
Along the charmé d air the notes have rolled,
Then died, as dies some sweet, some far-off chime. A silence strange and deep has cast its spell, --
A silence felt within the inmost soul,
Forth from whose realm there comes no voice to tell, --
Things to be dreamed, but never to be told. The air seems burdened with the gathering wings
Of spirits from some strange and far-off home,
Coming on swift, but noiseless plume, unheard to sing
Unto our heart of hearts their holy song. The pale, meek stars with milder radiance shine,
And a deep hush pervades the host on high,
In whispering groves, silent the wind-harp's chime
Hushed as weird midnight wrapt the solemn sky. Strange, holy hour, thine is no time for tears;
Thy grandeur doth reprove such weakness now.
And 'tis no time for hollow smiles nor fears;
Before a holier shrine our spirits bow. The soul bounds upward with an eager joy,
Bursts all its fetters, breathes its native air,
Revels in dreams unmixed with earth's alloy,
Free for an hour from sin and toil and care. Ambition's voice is hushed, and pleasure's tones
Dare not to tempt us with their winning power;
Passion's unholy tide grows sweetly calm,
And midnight gives to thought a lofty hour.