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Rh treads, and says to earth, "Thou art my dwelling, but not my home?" Night is beautiful in itself, but still more beautiful in its associations: it is not linked, as day is, with our cares and our toils, the business and the littleness of life. The sunshine brings with it its action: we rise in the morning, and our task is before us; but night comes, and with it rest. If we leave sleep, and ask not of dreams forgetfulness, our waking is in solitude, and our employment is thought. Imagination has thrown her glory around the midnight—the orbs of heaven, the silence, the shadows, are steeped in poetry. Even in the heart of a crowded city, where the moonlight fell but upon pavement and roof, the heart would be softened, and the mind elevated, amid the loneliness of night's deepest and stillest hours;—in the country the effect is still more impressive. We accustom ourselves to look upon the country as more pure, more free, more happy, than the town; and it is from the wood and the field, the hill and the valley, that poetry takes that imagery which so imperceptibly mingles with all our excited moods. The road, which wound rather round a hill