That sky of clouds is not the sky

To light a lover to the pillow

    Of her he loves—

The swell of yonder foaming billow

Resembles not the happy sigh

    That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far

Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,

    In this dark hour,

Than when, in passion's young emotion,

I've stolen, beneath the evening star,

    To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound

In awe like this, that ne'er was given

    To pleasure's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,

And the soul, listening to the sound,

    Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,

Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow

    In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow

No more shall wake the heart or eye,

    But all must sleep.

Well!—there are some, thou stormy bed,

To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;

    Oh! most to him,

Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,

Nor left one honey drop to shed

    Round sorrow's brim.

Yes—he can smile serene at death:

Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping

    Of friends who love him;

Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping

Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath

    No more shall move him.