Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/208

124 Inscribed the mystic tablet, hung on high To public gaze, and said, "Adore, O man! The finger of thy God." From what pure wells Of milky light, what soft overflowing urn, Are all these lamps so fill'd ? these friendly lamps, For ever streaming o'er the azure deep To point our path, and light us to our home. How soft they slide along their lucid spheres! And silent as the foot of Time, fulfill Their destined courses: Nature's self is hushed, And, but a scattered leaf, which rustles through The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard To break the midnight air; though the raised ear, Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! But are they silent all? or is there not A tongue in every star, that talks with man, And woos him to be wise? nor woos in vain: This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.