Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o'er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain streams;
Bard! away to worlds more bright-
Good night!
NIGHT, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world:
Silence, how dead! and darkness how profound!
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds.
Creation sleeps ;-as if the general pulse
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause-
An awful pause, prophetic of her end.
NIGHT IN THE DESERT.
How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven;
In full-orb'd glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths;
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky
How beautiful is night!
THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When all is smiling above and around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the blackbird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows sport in the deep green vale;
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll in the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth, that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles,-
Ay, look, and he'll smile all thy gloom away.
FOLDING THE FLOCKS.
SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And the evening star down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom:
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his lovèd flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these
Be not too secure in ease;
So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now good night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eye-lids: so farewell:
Thus I end my evening knell.
UNFOLDING THE FLOCKS.
SHEPHERDS, rise, and shake off sleep-
See the blushing morn doth peep
Through your windows, while the sun
To the mountain-tops has run,
Gilding all the vales below
With the rising flames, which grow
Brighter with his climbing still
Up! ye lazy swains! and fill
Bag and bottle for the field;
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield
To the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up, and find
Who lies longest, that she may
Be chidden for untimed delay.
Feed your faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay,
So unfold, and then away.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
'MONG the green lanes of Kent-green sunny lanes-
Where troops of children shout, and laugh, and play,
And gather daisies, stood an antique home,
Within its orchard, rich with ruddy fruits;
For the full year was laughing in his prime.
Wealth of all flowers grew in that garden green,
And the old porch with its great oaken door
Was smother'd in rose-blooms, while o'er the walls
The honeysuckle clung deliciously.
Before the door there lay a plot of grass,
Snow'd o'er with daisies-flower by all beloved,
And famousest in song-and in the midst,
A carvèd fountain stood, dried up and broken,
On which a peacock perch'd and sunn'd itself;
Beneath, two petted rabbits, snowy white,
Squatted upon the sward.
A row of poplars darkly rose behind,
Around whose tops, and the old-fashion'd vanes,
White pigeons flutter'd, and o'er all was bent
The mighty sky, with sailing sunny clouds.
THE wind, it is a mystic thing,
Wand'ring o'er ocean wide;
And fanning all the thousand sails
That o'er its billows glide.
It curls the blue waves into foam,
It snaps the strongest mast,
Then, like a sorrowing thing, it sighs
When the wild storm is past.
And yet how gently does it come
At ev'ning through the bow'rs,
As if it said a kind "good night"
To all the closing flowers!
It bears the perfume of the rose,
It fans the insect's wing;
'Tis round me, with me every where,
Yet 'tis an unseen thing.
How many sounds it bears along,
As o'er the earth it goes;
The song of many joyous hearts,
The sounds of many woes!
It enters into palace halls,
And carries thence the sound
Of mirth and music; but it creeps
The narrow prison round,
And bears away the captive's sigh,
Who sits in sorrow there;
Or from the martyr's lonely cell
Conveys his evening prayer.
It fans the reaper's heated brow
It through the window creeps,
And lifts the fair child's golden curls,
As on her couch she sleeps.
'Tis like the light, a gift to all,
To prince, to peasant given;
Awake, asleep, around us still,
There is this gift of heaven:
This strange, mysterious thing we call
The breeze, the air, the wind;
We call it so, but know no more,-
'Tis mystery, like our mind.
Think not the things most wonderful
Are those beyond our ken,-
For wonders are around the paths,
The daily paths of men.
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