Classic Poem

The dew is on my tent to-night,
Last night it was the rain;
And so I lay me down in hope
Of a sunny morn again.

The stars spread out above my head,
Around me the grey sand;
The fires are crackling keen and sharp
Of our swarthy Arab band.

And moving up the sky's clear arch,
Across the mountain towers,
The moon, unshaded and unveiled,
Scatters her silver showers.

The palm-trees, with their stately crowns,
Stand sheathed in quivering gleams,
Like fountain-jets that rise and fling
Far round their arching streams.

The bare rough peaks that notch the blue,
And watch the stars of night,
Throw their wild shadows o'er our tents,
And hide the welcome light.

Mantled in moonlight, how they rise,
Their wild slopes deadly pale!
Like withered age wrapt thinly round
With childhood's fairy veil.

Far down the heavens the north-star gleams,
Almost upon the rim
Of yon far mountain-walls, that rise
With outline faint and dim.

O desert-silence! is there aught
Upon this earth like thee?
O desert-moonlight! is there aught
So calm and fair and free?

How sweet the notes of living song
From this wild vale arise!
How quickly do they seem to pierce
These low, clear, silent skies!

With buoyant power each word ascends
Unhindered in its flight;
How near the gates of heaven appear!
The way, how plain and bright!