From: Poems (1844)
Author: Christopher Pearse Cranch
Published: Carey and Hart 1844 Philadelphia



THE star-wrought mantle of the dewy Night
Is folded now all round and round thee, Earth:
Safely to rest! this moon thy chamber-light,
These winds thy waving curtains, and the birth
Of white-winged mountain mists thy dreams shall be—
Silently rising as thy slumbers fall.
The Night is now too clear for thee to see
The storm-clouds gather at the tempest’s call,
And fright thee with their dream-scowl as thou sleepest.
Rest thee, O mother Earth! The heavens above
Shine on thy sleep, will cheer thee if thou weepest,
And sing thee their old morning song of love;
They watch o’er thee, as thou when daylight comes,
Dost watch from all thy hills, over thy children’s homes.


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