I hear the far-off curfew sound,
  Over some wide-watered shore,
  Swinging slow with sullen roar;
  Or, if the air will not permit,
  Some still, removed place will fit,
  Where glowing embers through the room
  Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
  Far from all resort of mirth,
  Save the cricket on the hearth,
  Or the bellman’s drowsy charm,
  To bless the doors from nightly harm;
  Or let my lamp, at midnight-hour,
  Be seen in some high, lonely tower,
  Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
  With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
  The spirit of Plato, to unfold
  What worlds or what vast regions hold
  The immortal mind, that hath forsook
  Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
  And of those demons that are found
  In fire, air, flood, or underground,
  Whose power hath a true consent
  With planet, or with element. 
  Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
  In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
  Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line,
  Or the tale of Troy divine,
  Or what, though rare, of later age
  Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 
    But, O sad Virgin! that thy power
  Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
  Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
  Such notes as warbled to the string
  Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
  And made Hell grant what love did seek;
  Or call up him that left half-told
  The story of Cambuscan bold,
  Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
  And who had Canace to wife,
  That owned the virtuous ring and glass;
  And of the wondrous horse of brass,
  On which the Tartar king did ride;
  And if ought else great bards beside
  In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
  Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
  Of forests and enchantments drear,
  Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
    Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
  Till civil-suited Morn appear,
  Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont
  With the Attic boy to hunt,
  But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,
  While rocking winds are piping loud,
  Or ushered with a shower still,
  When the gust hath blown his fill,
  Ending on the rustling leaves,
  With minute-drops from off the eaves. 
    And when the sun begins to fling
  His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
  To arched walks of twilight groves,
  And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
  Of pine, or monumental oak,
  Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
  Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
  Or fright them from their hallowed haunt
  There, in close covert by some brook,
  Where no profaner eye may look,
  Hide me from day’s garish eye,
  While the bee with honeyed thigh,
  That at her flowery work doth sing,
  And the waters murmuring,
  With such concert as they keep,
  Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. 
  And let some strange, mysterious dream