In all the dark embroidery of the storm, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds The heaven of April, with its changing light, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us,-and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. Voices of the Night. Πότνια, πότνια νύξη ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνων βροτῶν, ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, υπό τε συμφορᾶς PRELUDE. EURIPIDES. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, Dreams that the soul of youth engage And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go; Or, where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping The shadows hardly eaves move. Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground; His hoary arms uplifted he, And all the broad leaves over me Clapped their little hands in glee, With one continuous sound;▲ slumberous sound,—a sound brings that The feelings of a dream,— Bright visions, came to me, Ere fancy has been quelled; Tales that have the rime of age, And, loving still these quaint old themes, I feel the freshness of the streams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; They were my playmates when a child, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, "Come, be a child once more!" Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Thou art no more a child ! "The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Of iron branches sounds! Then comes the fearful wintry blast; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; Pallid lips say, 'It is past! We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, Be these henceforth thy theme." HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls. I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before: Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. I heard the sounds of sorrow and Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe delight, The manifold, soft chimes, this prayer; Descend with broad-winged flight, That fill the haunted chambers of the The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. most fair, The best beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. FOOTSTEPS WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Spake with us on earth no more! OF ANGELS. And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, O, though oft depress'd and lonely, , All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is "My Lord has need of these flowerets Death, gay,' The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, Within my breast there is no light, I give the first watch of the night The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Be resolute and calm. Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. |