A NIGHT-PIECE. 167 A NIGHT-PIECE. -THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. But they are silent;-still they roll along Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, At length the Vision closes; and the mind, W. Wordsworth. 168 NIGHT IN THE DESERT. NIGHT IN THE DESERT. How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; In full orbed glory yonder moon divine The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. R. Southey. TO THE MOON. ART thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Among the stars that have a different birth,- That finds no object worth its constancy? P. B. Shelley. THE MOON. 169 THE MOON. How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high Her way pursuing among scatter'd clouds, Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds Hidden from view in dense obscurity! But look, and to the watchful eye A brightening edge will indicate that soon Break forth,-again to walk the clear blue sky. W. Wordsworth. THE WORLD'S WANDERERS. TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now! Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Weary wind, who wanderest On the tree or billow? P. B. Shelley. 170 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light I felt her presence, by its spell of might, The calm, majestic presence of the Night, I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,- O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, H. W. Longfellow. DATUR HORA QUIETI. 171 DATUR HORA QUIETI. THE sun upon the lake is low, Now all whom varied toil and care The noble dame on turret high, 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 woodlark at his partner's side All meet whom day and care divide, Sir W. Scott. |