A NIGHT-PIECE, OR, MODERN PHILOSOPHY by CHRISTOPHER SMART

'TWAS when bright Cynthia with her silver car,
Soft stealing from Endymion's bed,
Had called forth ev'ry glitt'ring star,
And up th' ascent of heav'n her brilliant host had led.
Night, with all her negro train,
Took possession of the plain;
In an hearse she rode reclined,
Drawn by screech-owls slow and blind:
Close to her, with printless feet,
Crept Stillness, in a winding-sheet.
Next to her deaf Silence was seen,
Treading on tip-toes over the green;
Softly, lightly, gently she trips,
Still holding her fingers sealed to her lips.
You could not see a sight,
You could not hear a sound,
But what confessed the night,
And horror deepened round.

Beneath a myrtle's melancholy shade,
Sophron the wise was laid:
And to the answ'ring wood these sounds conveyed:
'While others toil within the town,
And to Fortune smile or frown,
Fond of trifles, fond of toys,
And married to that woman, Noise;
Sacred Wisdom be my care,
And fairest Virtue, Wisdom's heir.'

His speculations thus the sage begun,
When, lo! the neighbouring bell
In solemn sound struck one:—
He starts—and recollects—he was engaged to Nell.
Then up he sprang nimble and light,
And rapped at fair Ele'nor's door;
He laid aside virtue that night,
And next morn pored in Plato for more.

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