O silent Night, how have they startled thee

With the brazen trumpet’s blare!

And thou, O Moon! whose quiet light serene

Filleth wide heaven, and bathing hill and wood,

Spreads o’er the peaceful valley like a flood,

How have they dimm’d thee with the torches’ glare,

Which round yon moving pageant flame and flare,

As the wild rout, with deafening song and shout,

Fling their long flashes out,

That, like infernal lightnings, fire the air.