To soften'd recollections given,
To musings that aspire to heaven!
The book, the pen, the praise, the prayer,
Each claim, of that lov'd hour, their share;
Alas for those who have not known
The precious evening hour alone!
When busy hands and restless feet
Are passive in their night's retreat,
The warning lip, the watchful ear,
Forget, alike, to guide, to hear;
And not a sound approaches nigh
Save when the night bird flutters by,
Or soft wind rustles through the trees,
And falling leaf floats on the breeze.
O blessed hour of thought! assign'd
To calm the tumults of the mind,
Each harrowing hour to soothe, to still,
And bend to peace the stubborn will;
Let social joys surround my hearth,
The voice of friendship, smile of mirth,
The laugh-how dear-of youthful glee,
That tells of brief felicity;
Welcome all these, so I possess
One unshared hour of happiness,
Claim'd by reflection as her own,
The tranquil evening hour alone.
BEAUTY OF A STARLIGHT NIGHT.
YE quenchless stars! so eloquently bright,
Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night,
While half the world is lapp'd in blissful dreams, And round the lattice creep your fairy beams, How sweet to gaze upon those placid eyes, In lambent beauty looking from the skies! And when, oblivious of the world, we stray At dead of night along some noiseless way, How the heart mingles with a moon-lit hour, And feels from heaven a sympathetic power! See! not a cloud careers yon pathless deep Of molten azure,-mute as lovely sleep; Full in her pallid light the Moon presides, Shrined in a halo, mellowing as she rides; And far around, the forest and the stream Wear the rich garment of her woven beam. The lull'd winds, too, are sleeping in their caves, No stormy prelude rolls upon the waves; Nature is hush'd, as if her works adored, Still'd into homage of her living Lord!
WHEN evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound,
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;
When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;-
Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,
O, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.
The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
O, sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.
'Twere almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing, And wafted by their breath away. When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, Shouldst thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, And, sister, sing the song I love?
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,—
Their bases on the mountains-their white tops
Shining in the far ether,-fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
O come, and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now,
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet; and silver waters break
Into small waves, and sparkle as he comes.
YE viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not, in times gone by,
That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or play,
Unearthly thoughts supplied.
Awful your power! when by your might
You heave the wild waves, crested white,
Like mountains, in your wrath;
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the seaman roused from sleep,
Yawn like Death's opening path!
Graceful your play! when round the bower
Where beauty culls spring's loveliest flower
To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round the wreath,
And stir her silken hair.
Still thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth :-
Ye come!-we know not whence!
Ye go!-can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight,
Though audible to sense.
The sun,-his rise and set we know ;
The sea,-we mark its ebb and flow;
The moon,-her wax and wane;
|