XXXVIII.

A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers The shades of elder bards; a night to hold Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old; A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould, To strew sweet flowers--for revellers to fill And wreathe the cup--for sorrows to be told Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still! It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!