# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Midnight and Moonshine

Midnight and Moonshine.
All earth below, all heaven above, In this calm hour, are filled with Love; All sights, all sounds, have throbbing hearts, In which its blessed fountain starts, And gushes forth so fresh and free, Like a soul-thrilling melody.
Look! look! the land is sheathed in light, And mark the winding stream, How, creeping round yon distant height, Its rippling waters gleam. Its waters flash through leaf and flower— Oh! merrily they go; Like living things, their voices pour Dim music as they flow.
Sinless and pure they seek the sea, As souls pant for eternity;— Heaven speed their bright course till they sleep In the broad bosom of the deep.
High in mid air, on seraph wing, The paley moon is journeying In stillest path of stainless blue; Keen, curious stars are peering through Heaven's arch this hour; they doat on her With perfect love; nor can she stir Within her vaulted halls a pace, Ere rushing out, with joyous face, These Godkins of the sky Smile, as she glides in loveliness; While every heart beats high With passion, and breaks forth to bless Her loftier divinity.
It is a smile worth worlds to win— So full of love, so void of sin, The smile she sheds on these tall trees, Stout children of past centuries. Each little leaf, with feathery light, Is margined marvellously;
Moveless all droop, in slumberous quiet; How beautiful they be! And blissful as soft infants lulled Upon a mother's knee.
Far down yon dell the melody Of a small brook is audible; The shadow of a thread-like tone,—- It murmurs over root and stone, Yet sings of very love its fill;— And hark! even now, how sweetly shrill It trolls its fairy glee, Skywards unto that pure bright one; O! gentle heart hath she, For, leaning down to earth, with pleasure, She lists its fond and prattling measure.
It is indeed a silent night Of peace, of joy, and purest light;— No angry breeze, in surly tone, Chides the old forest till it moan; Or breaks the dreaming of the owl, That, warder-like, on yon gray tower, Feedeth his melancholy soul With visions of departed power;
And o'er the ruins Time hath sped, Nods sadly with his spectral head.
And lo! even like a giant wight Slumbering his battle toils away, The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright With many a dazzling ray, Lies stretched in vastness at my feet; Voiceless the chamber and the street, And echoless the hall;— Had Death uplift his bony hand And smote all living on the land, No deeper quiet could fall. In this religious calm of night, Behold, with finger tall and bright, Each tapering spire points to the sky, In a fond, holy ecstacy;— Strange monuments they be of mind,— Of feelings dim and undefined, Shaping themselves, yet not the less, In forms of passing loveliness.
O God! this is a holy hour:— Thy breath is o'er the land;
I feel it in each little flower Around me where I stand,— In all the moonshine scattered fair, Above, below me, everywhere,— In every dew-bead glistening sheen, In every leaf and blade of green,— And in this silence grand and deep, Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep.
The trees send forth their shadows long In gambols o'er the earth, To chase each other's innocence In quiet, holy mirth; O'er the glad meadows fast they throng, Shapes multiform and tall; And lo! for them the chaste moonbeam, With broadest light doth fall. Mad phantoms all, they onward glide,— On swiftest wind they seem to ride O'er meadow, mount, and stream: And now, with soft snd silent pace, They walk as in a dream, While each bright earth-flower hides its face Of blushes, in their dim embrace.
Men say, that in this midnight hour, The disembodied have power To wander as it liketh them, By wizard oak and fairy stream,— Through still and solemn places, And by old walls and tombs, to dream, With pale, cold, mournful faces. I fear them not; for they must be Spirits of kindest sympathy, Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel The beauties of this calm night steal Like music o'er them, while they woo'd The luxury of Solitude.
Welcome, ye gentle spirits! then, Who love and feel for earth-chained men,— Who, in this hour, delight to dwell By moss-clad oak and dripping cell,— Who joy to haunt each age-dimmed spot, Which ruder natures have forgot; And, in majestic solitude, Feel every pulse-stroke thrill of good To all around, below, above;— Ye are the co-mates whom I love!
While, lingering in this moonshine glade, I dream of hopes that cannot fade; And pour abroad those phantasies That spring from holiest sympathies With Nature's moods, in this glad hour Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power, When the busy stir of man is gone, And the soul is left with its God alone!