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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

BYRON.

Yet not the golden islands

And vesper bells that rose the boughs along; Gleaming in yon flood of light,

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
Nor the feathery curtains

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, Which learned from this example not to fly
Nor the burnished ocean's waves

From a true lover, -shadowed my mind's eye. Paving that gorgeous dome, So fair, so wonderful a sight

O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things, As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, l'et likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall !

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,

The welcome stall to the o'crlabored steer ; Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread Its floors of tlashing light,

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Its vast and azure dome,

Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Its fertile golden islands

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; Floating on a silver sea ;

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the Through clouds of circumambient darkness,

heart And pearly battlements around

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day Looked o'er the immense of heaven.

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay :
EVENING.

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ?
FROM “DON JUAN."

Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns.
Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea,
That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee !
Are Maria! blessed be the hour,

EVENING IN PARADISE.
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Hare felt that moment in its fullest power

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,

Had in her sober livery all things clad ;
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,

Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird,
Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,

Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ;

She all night long her amorous descant sung. And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with

Silence was pleased : now glowed the firmament prayer.

With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer!

The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love!

Rising in clouded majesty, at length Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare

Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. Ave Maria ! O that face so fair !

When Adam thus to Eve : “Fair consort, the Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty

hour dove,

Of night, and all things now retired to rest, What though 't is but a pictured image ? - Mind us of like repose, since God hath set strike,

Labor and rest, as day and night, to men That painting is no idol, -'t is too like. Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep, Sreet hour of twilight ! in the solitude

Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines of the pine forest, and the silent shore

Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest; Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er

Man hath his daily work of body or mind To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,

Appointed, which declares his dignity, Evergreen forest ; which Boccaccio's lore

And the regard of Heaven on all his ways;

While other animals unactive range,
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee !

And of their doings God takes no account.

To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

With first approach of light, we must be risen, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, And at our pleasant labor, to reform Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, / Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green,

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, Thy brother Death came, and cried,
That mock our scant manuring, and require

“Wouldst thou me?More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,

Murmured like a noontide bee, That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unșmooth,

“Shall I nestle near thy side ? Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; Wouldst thou me ?” — And I replied, Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest.”

No, not thee!”
To whom thus Eve with perfect beauty adorned:
“My author and disposer, what thou bidd’st Death will come when thou art dead,
Unargued I obey; so God ordains ;

Soon, too soon,
God is thy law, thou mine; to know no more Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. Of neither would I ask the boon
With thee conve
nversing I forget all time;

I ask of thee, beloved Night,
All seasons and their change, all please alike. Swist be thine approaching flight,
Swect is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

Come soon, soon !
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth

NIGHT.
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew
With this her sclemn bird, and this fair moon,

Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, But neither breath of morn, when she ascends

This glorious canopy of light and blue ? With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night And lo! creation widened in man's view. With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Who could have thought such darkness lay con. Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.”

cealed Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed Within thy beams, o Sun! or who could find, On to their blissful bower.

Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood rerealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ?
TO NIGHT.

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night !
Out of the misty castern cave,

NIGHT.
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear

How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh Which make thee terrible and dear,

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear Swift be thy light !

Were discord to the speaking quietude Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon Star-inwrought;

vault, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,

Studded with stars unutterably bright, Kiss her until she be wearied out;

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur Then wander o'er city and sea and land,

rolls, Touching all with thine opiate wand,

Seems like a canopy which love has spread
Come, long-sought !

To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,

Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; When I arose and saw the dawn,

Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, I sighed for thee ;

So stainless that their white and glittering spires
When light rode high, and the dew iras gone, Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castle steer,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, Whose banner hangeth o'er the timeworn tower
And the weary Day turned to her rest, So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it
Lingering like an unloved guest,

A metaphor of peace — all form a scene
I sighed for thee!

Where musing solitude might love to lift

MILTON.

BLANCO WHITE.

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 unruffled 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

distant thunder mutters awfully;
hpest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom
shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend,

his windsand lightnings, tracks his prey; n deep yawns, – the vessel finds a grave th its jagged gulf.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendor shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Ofallthat flattered, followed, sought, and sued; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude !

BYRON.

NIGHT.

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.

Night is the time for dreams :

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !
Night is the time for toil :

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

FROM “CHILDE HAROLD."
*T is night, when Meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end :
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a

friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itselfsurvives young Loveandjoy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,

Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be

a boy? Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's waye-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;

A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

Night is the time to weep :

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of Memory, where sleep

The joys of other years ;
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch :

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.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion

dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild rock that never needs a fold;
Alonc o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean, —

This is not solitude; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her

stores unrolled.

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,
Night is the time to pray:

Or sadness in the summer moons ?
Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away ;

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
So will his follower do,

The little speedwell's darling blue,
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,

Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, And commune there alone with God.

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
Night is the time for Death:

O thou, new-year, delaying long,
When all around is peace,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

That longs to burst a frozen bud,
From sin and suffering cease,

And flood a fresher throat with song.
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends ; – such death be mine.

Now fades the last long streak of snow;
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Now bourgeons every maze of quick

About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets blow.
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
'Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,

The distance takes a lovelier hue, I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night

And drowned in yonder living blue
Sweep through her marble halls !

The lark becomes a sightless song.
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls !

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.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives

In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill 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.
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.

DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY! Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Die down, o dismal day, and let me live ; Descend with broad-winged flight,

And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn

With colored clouds,-large, light, and fugitive, -
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

By upper winds through pompous motions blown.
Now it is death in life, — a vapor dense
Creeps round my window, till I cannot see
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens

Shagging the mountain tops. O God ! make free
SPRING.

This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold, 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 ; () sweet new-ycar, delaying long :

I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare,
Thou doest expectant Nature wrong;

O God, forone clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!
Delaying long, delay no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

FROM

DAVID GRAY.

SUMMER LONGINGS.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of

quivers,
Au! my heart is weary waiting,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
Waiting for the May, -

With a noise of winds and many rivers,
Waiting for the pleasant rambles

With a clamor of waters, and with might; Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most fleet, With the woodbine alternating,

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet !
Scent the dewy way.

For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting,

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,

to her,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
Longing for the May.

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

And the southwest-wind and the west-wind. Sighing for the May,

sing
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

And all the season of shows and sins ;
All the winter lay.

The days dividing lover and lover,
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

The light that loses, the night that wins ;

And time remembered is grief forgotten,
Sighing for the May.

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, And in green underwood and cover
Throbbing for the May,

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing.willows;

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
Glide the streams away.

The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ;
Throbbing for the May.

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,

And the oat is heard above the lyre,
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

And the hooféd heel of a satyr crushes
Waiting for the May :

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Life still ebbs away ;

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Man is ever weary, weary,

Follows with dancing and fills with delight

The Mænad and the Bassarid;
Waiting for the May !

And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING.

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 flies. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

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