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He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill:
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy-for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

The sky is changed!-and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night:-most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,―
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black-and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er the young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand:
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around: of all the band

The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd
His lightnings,—as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation work'd,

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.

ADDRESS TO THE SETTING SUN.

409

A NIGHT SCENE AT THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.
'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;

Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray ?
The waves on either shore lay there
Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmur'd meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillow'd on the waves,
The banners droop'd along their staves.
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill,
And echo answer'd from the hill,

And the wide hum of that wild host

Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air,
In midnight call to wonted prayer;
It rose, that chanted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain.

ADDRESS TO THE SETTING SUN.

THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful!
I linger yet with nature, for the sight
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
2

VOL. I.

Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learn'd the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Colosseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot.

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation and fill'd up,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old !

The dead, but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.

JOHN WILSON.

BORN, 1789.

A CHURCHYARD SCENE.

How sweet and solemn, all alone,

With reverend steps, from stone to stone,

In a small village churchyard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move!

CHURCHYARD SCENE.

411

And as we read the names unknown

Of young and old to judgment gone,
And hear in the calm air above
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate, in Christian love,
Upon the dead and dying!
Across the silence seem to go

With dream-like motion, wavering, slow,
And shrouded in their folds of snow,
The friends we lov'd, long, long ago!
Gliding across the sad retreat,
How beautiful their phantom-feet!
What tenderness is in their eyes,
Turned where the poor survivor lies
'Mid monitory sanctities!

What years of vanished joy are fanned
From one uplifting of that hand,
In its white stillness! when the shade
Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade
From our embrace, how dim appears
This world's life through a mist of tears!
Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears!
Such is the scene around me now:

A little churchyard on the brow

Of a green pastoral hill;

Its sylvan village sleeps below,

And faintly there is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill;

A place where all things mournful meet,
And yet the sweetest of the sweet,

The stillest of the still!

With what a pensive beauty fall

Across the mossy mouldering wall

That rose-tree's clustered arches! see

The robin redbreast warily,

Bright, through the blossoms, leaves his nest;

Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest

At the firesides of men—but shy-
Through all the sunny summer hours,
He hides himself among the flowers,
In his own wild festivity.

What lulling sound and shadow cool,
Hangs half the darkened churchyard o'er,
From thy green depths so beautiful,
Thou gorgeous sycamore!

Oft hath the holy wine and bread
Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,
Where many a bright and hoary head
Bowed at that awful sacrament.

Now all beneath the turf are laid,
On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.
Above that consecrated tree,

Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul up silently

To heaven, with all its dreams,
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heav'd bosom's purple gleams
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe,
The voice so lonely seems !

THE CHILDREN'S DANCE.

How calm and beautiful the frosty night
Has stol'n unnotic'd like the hush of sleep
O'er Grassmere vale! Beneath the mellowing light,
How sinks in softness every rugged steep!
Through many a vale how rang each snow-roof'd cot,
This livelong day with rapture blithe and wild!
All thoughts but of the lingering eve forgot,
Both by grave parent, and light-hearted child.
All day the earthen floors have felt their feet
Twinkling quick measures to the liquid sound
Of their own small-piped voices shrilly sweet,—
As hand in hand they wheel'd their giddy round.

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