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HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος.

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-
From those deep cisterns flows.

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.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

H. W. Longfellow.

DATUR HORA QUIETI.

THE sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song,
The hills have evening's deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.

Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,

Upon the footpath watches now

For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,

By day they swam apart,

And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.

The woodlark at his partner's side
Twitters his closing song-

All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tarries long!

Sir W. Scott.

172

MEETING AT NIGHT.

MEETING AT NIGHT.

I.

THE grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

2.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at a pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Robert Browning.

PARTING AT MORNING.

ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.

R. Browning.

IN THE STORM.

(IN MEMORY OF MY SON.

WRITTEN AT

TAYMOUTH, PERTHSHIRE.)

IF, going forth in the snow and the hail,

In the wind and the rain,

On the desolate hills, in the face of the gale,

I could meet thee again;

Ah! with what rapture my bosom would beat

And my steps onward pass,

With a smile on my lip, while the thin driving sleet

Soaked through the cold grass!

But never-the hour can never have birth

That would gladden me thus;

There are meetings, and greetings, and welcomes on earth, But no more for us!

No more shalt thou comfort the long dreary night,

Or the brief bitter day;

When my heart feels the pang of a serpent's keen bite

In the words others say;

No more shall thy letters come in with the morn,

Making sunshine for hours,

With thoughts of an innocent tenderness born,
Or a spray of dried flowers!

174

IN THE STORM.

With praises whose love used to cheer and to bless,
Running through every line;

And fond closing words that felt like a caress
Which thy soul gave to mine.

Many missives lie heaped, to be read in their turn.

Oh! tender and true,

In the blank of that hour how wildly I yearn
For the writing I knew!

Unmeaning and vapid, or bitter, the words

Which I blot with vain tears:

Thy pity no longer the solace affords
Which it gave in past years.

I shall see thee no more, till life's trial shall cease,
Gliding into my room,

With thy sweet eyes so full of the spirit of peace,
Soothing anger and gloom.

I shall hear thee no more, with that low gentle voice
Whose divine music made,

Like the harp of young David, the spirit rejoice
That was crushed and betrayed.

I fling wide my casement: forth, forth I would roam,
And I mock at the storm

As it beats, sweeping inward, to visit a home
All living and warm.

The grey clouds are scudding in vaporous shrouds
O'er a sky dark as lead:

I think of the tombs that are planted in crowds-
Pale homes of the dead!