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SING no more in mournful tones

Of the loneliness of night;
For 'tis made, ye beauteous ones,

For all social pleasures bright.

As of old to man a wife

As his better half was given,
So the night is half our life,

And the fairest under heaven.

How can ye enjoy the day,

Which obstructs our rapture's tide?
Let it waste itself away;

Worthless 'tis for aught beside.

But when in the darkling hours

From the lamp soft rays are glowing,
And from mouth to mouth sweet showers,

Now of jest, now love, are flowing,--

When the nimble, wanton boy,

Who so wildly spends his days,
Oft amid light sports with joy

O'er some trifling gift delays,

When the nightingale is singing

Strains the lover holds so dear,
Though like sighs and wailings ringing

In the mournful captive's ear,--

With what heart-emotion blest

Do ye hearken to the bell,
Wont of safety and of rest

With twelve solemn strokes to tell!

Therefore in each heavy hour,

Let this precept fill your heart:
O'er each day will sorrow loud,

Rapture ev'ry night impart.

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