I love thee, mournful sober-suited night,

When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane

And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light

Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main.

In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind

Will to the deaf, cold elements complain,

And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain,

To sullen surges and the viewless wind.

Tho' no repose on thy dark breast I find,

I still enjoy thee — chearless as thou art;

For in thy quiet gloom, the exhausted heart,

Is calm, tho' wretched; hopeless, yet resign'd.

While, to the winds and waves, it's sorrows given,

May reach — tho' lost on earth — the ear of heaven!