THE SONG OF NIGHT.

Tread lightly-for the sanctity of death

Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:
Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!

-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high;
Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry :-
Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord

Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd
Their anguish forth, are with me and around;-
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!

That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head:
And thou, still battling with the tempest's force-
Thou, whose bright spirit through all time hast bled-
Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace!
-Doth not this hush give answer to my quest ?
Surely the dread religion of the place

By every grief hath made its might confest!
-Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

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THE SONG OF NIGHT.*

"O night.

And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength !"

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew

In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew

The glory of its birth.

Byron

*Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented un der the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep 'n her arms.

Not one which glimmering lies

Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star;

Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace:-I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones-
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings,

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb:
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train;

Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead-
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes

These are my lightnings-fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control,

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!-the arm'd, the strong-
The searcher of the soul!

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.

I, that shower dewy light

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Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest-birth
Of memory, thought, remorse-Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night!

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.*

"Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal?
Are ye like those that shake the human breast?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?"
Childe Harold.

MIDNIGHT, and silence deep!
-The air is fill'd with sleep,

With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath;
The fix'd and solemn stars

Gleam through my dungeon bars

Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!
Ye watch-fires of the skies!
The stillness of your eyes

Looks too intensely through my troubled soul;
I feel this weight of rest

An earth-load on my breast

Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!
I am your own, your child,

ye, the fierce, and wild,

And kingly tempests!-will ye not arise?

Hear the bold spirit's voice,

That knows not to rejoice

But in the peal of your strong harmonies.

By sounding ocean-waves,
And dim Calabrian caves,

And flashing torrents, I have been your mate;
And with the rocking pines

Of the olden Apennines,

In your dark path stood fearless and elate:

Your lightnings were as rods,

That smote the deep abodes

Of thought and vision-and the stream gush'd free;
Come, that my soul again

May swell to burst its chain

Bring me the music of the sweeping sea!

* Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness-fired by lightning-now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprison ment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.-See Lanzi's History of Painting, translated by Roscoe.

Within me dwells a flame,
An eagle caged and tame,

Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast;
Then is its triumph's hour,
It springs to sudden power,

As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast.
Then, then, the canvass o'er,
With hurried hand I pour

The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul!
Kindling to fiery life

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife

Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!
Wake, rise! the reed may bend,
The shivering leaf descend,

The forest branch give way before your might;
But I your strong compeer,

Call, summon, wait you here-
Answer, my spirit!-answer, storm and night!

THE TWO VOICES.

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain,
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain

Meet in the sky:

"Thou art gone hence!" one sang;

"Our light is flown, Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own

Ever to die!

"Thou art gone hence!-our joyous hills among
Never again to pour thy soul in song,

When spring-flowers rise!
Never the friend's familiar step to meet
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet
Of thy glad eyes."

"Thou art gone home, gone home!" then, high and clear, Warbled that other Voice; "Thou hast no tear

Again to shed.

Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,

Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again
To bow thy head.

"Thou art gone home! oh! early crown'd and blest!
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest
With aught below?

Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away-
Thrice bless'd to go!"

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief-
"Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief,
So loved should be ;

Thou tak'st our summer hence!-the flower, the tone
The music of our being, all in one,

Depart with thee'

THE PARTING SHIP.

"Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled!
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead?
The dark unknown?

Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,
Thy smile is gone!"

"Home, home!" once more the exulting Voice arose:
"Thou art gone home!-from that divine repose
Never to roam!

Never to say farewell, to weep in vain,
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again-
Thou art gone home!

"By the bright waters now thy lot is cast-
Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past
The rough sea's foam!
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd,
Home! home!-thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd.
Thou art gone home!"

THE PARTING SHIP.

"A glittering ship, that hath the plain

Of ocean for her own domain."- Wordsworth

Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea,

Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell; Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be,

Fare-thee-well, bark! farewell!

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft,

The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song:
Who now of storms hath dream or memory left?
And yet the deep is strong!

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles
Of summer tremble on the water's breast!
Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles,
In lone, wild beauty drest.

To thee a welcome breathing o'er the tide,
The genii groves of Araby shall pour ;
Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side,
On the old Indian shore.

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie

O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl'd,
And its leaves whisper, as the wind sweeps by
Tales of the elder world.

Oft shall the burning stars of Southern skies,
On the mid-ocean see thee chain'd in sleep,
A lonely home for human thoughts and ties,
Between the heavens and deep.

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