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But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
Ofallthat flattered, followed, sought, and sued; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude !
Night is the time for rest :
How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams :
The gay romance of life,
Mix in fantastic strife;
To plough the classic field,
Its wealthy furrows yield;
To wet with unseen tears
The joys of other years ;
O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still.
The orb of day In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless field Sinks sweetly smiling: not the faintest breath Steals o'er the unruftled deep; the clouds of eve Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; And vesper's image on the western main Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, Rolls o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; T'empest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, With all his windsand lightnings, trackshis prey; The torn deep yawns,
the vessel finds a grave Beneath its jagged gulf.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be
Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
This is not solitude; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her
Night is the time for care :
Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost. Night is the time to think :
When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
What stays thee from the clouded noons, The dawn of uncreated light.
Thy sweetness from its proper place ?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons ?
Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue, Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
O thou, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat with song.
Now fades the last long streak of snow;
Now bourgeons every maze of quick
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long, I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
The flocks are whiter down the vale, Stoop o'er me from above;
And milkier every milky sail The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
On winding stream or distant sea ; As of the one I love.
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes,
In yonder greening gleam, and fly That till the haunted chambers of the Night,
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
From land to land ; and in my breast My spirit drank repose ;
Spring wakens too ; and my regret The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,
Becomes an April violet, From those deep cisterns flows.
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
What man has borne before !
DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY ! Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! And coine, blue deeps, magnificently strewn
Die down, O dismal day, and let me live ; Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, By upper winds through pompous motions blown.
With colored clouds,-large, light, and fugitive, The best-beloved Night !
Now it is death in life,
Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free
This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold, FROM “IN MEMORIAM."
Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, Dip down upon the northern shore,
While she performs her customed charities; O sweet new-year, delaying long :
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare, Thou doest expectant Mature wrong;
O God, forone clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! Delaying long, delay no more.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
a vapor dense
Come with bows bent and with emptying of
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamor of waters, and with might ; Where the fragrant hawthom-brambles, Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most fleet, With the woodbine alternating,
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet !
For the faint cast quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the Waiting for the May.
night. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing,
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Longing for the May,
Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Longing to escape from study,
O that man's heart were as fire and could spring To the young face fair and ruddy,
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind Sighing for the May,
sing. Sighing for their sure returning,
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins ;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins ;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hooféd heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid ;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; The mother of months in meadow or plain
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Fills the shadows and windy places
Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, And the brown bright nightingale amorous
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves Is half assuaged for Itylus,
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces;
The wolf that follows, the fawn that fiies. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
THE WINTER BEING OVER.
Tie winter being over,
This may learn
Them that mourn,
He therefore that sustaineth
They that faint
With complaint Therefore are to blame ; They add to their afflictions, And amplify the same.
For if they could with patience
But if the mind
He that is melancholy,
Sparks of joy
Fly away ;
But those that are contented
WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND.
THE Time hath laid his mantle by
Of wind and rain and icy chill, And dons a rich embroidery
Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky,
Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, For Time hath laid his mantle by
Of wind and rain and icy chill.
CHARLES OF ORLEAYS.
RETURN OF SPRING.
[Translation.) God shield ye, heralds of the spring, Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,
Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Through the green woods and dales.
And he whom erst the gore
I welcome ye once more.
Of each sweet herblet sip;
To kiss them with your lip.
A hundred thousand times I call
Shall we have, for laughter A hearty welcome on ye all ;
Freely shouted to the woods, tillall the echoes ring. This season how I love
Send the children up
To the high hill's top,
To woo spring's caresses.
See, the birds together,
Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as
And each feathered neighbor The cock is crowing,
Enters on his labor, The stream is flowing,
Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter,
As the year advances, The green field sleeps in the sun ;
Trees their naked branches The oldest and youngest
Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green apAre at work with the strongest ;
parel. The cattle are grazing,
Insect and wild beast Their heads never raising ;
Keep no Lent, but feast; There are forty feeding like one !
Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy's
increased, Like an army defeated
And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud The snow hath retreated,
carol. And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill ;
Ah, come and woo the spring; The plough-boy is whooping - anon-anon ! List to the birds that sing; There's joy on the mountains;
Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; There's life in the fountains;
Pluck the daisies, Small clouds are sailing,
Sing their praises ; Blue sky prevailing ;
Friendship with the flowers some noble thought The rain is over and gone !
Come forth and gather these sweet elves,
Come forth and gather them yourselves;
Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more
than gold. LAUD the first spring daisies ; Chant aloud their praises ;
Come, come into the wood; Send the children up
Pierce into the bowers To the high hill's top ;
Of these gentle flowers, Tax not the strength of their young hands Which, not in solitude To increase your lands.
Dwell, but with each other keep society : Gather the primroses,
And with a simple piety, Make handfuls into posies ;
Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good Take them to the little girls who are at work in Or, upon summer earth, mills:
To die, in virgin worth ;. Pluck the violets blue,
Or to be strewn before the bride, Ah, pluck not a few !
And the bridegroom, by her siile. Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instils ?
Come forth on Sundays ;
Come forth on Mondays ; Give the children holidays,
Come forth on any day ; (And let these be jolly days,)
Children, come forth to play :Grant freedom to the children in this joyous Worship the God of Nature in your childhood ; spring;
Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; Better men, hereafter,
Worship him in your sports ; worship him ever;