midnight
O ! at this still , this lonely hour , Thine own sweet hour of closing day , Awake thy lute , whose charmful pow ' r Shall call up Fancy to obey : To paint the wild romantic dream , That meets the poet 's musing eye , As , on the bank of shadowy stream , He breathes to her the fervid sigh . O lonely spirit ! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt ; The minister 's moonlight aisles along , Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt . I hear their dirges faintly swell ! Then , sink at once in silence drear , While , from the pillar 'd cloister 's cell , Dimly their gliding forms appear ! Lead where the pine-woods wave on high , Whose pathless sod is darkly seen , As the cold moon , with trembling eye , Darts her long beams the leaves between .