I bring them from the tomb:

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove.
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train:

Who calls me lonely?-hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dread-..
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes,

These are my lightnings!—filled with anguish vain
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control,

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!—the armed, the strong,
The searcher of the soul!

I, that shower dewy light

Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest birth

Of memory, thought, remorse:-be holy, earth!-

I am the solemn Night!

MRS. HEMANS.

A WINTER NIGHT.

WINTER night; the stormy wind is hight,
Rocking the leafless branches to and fro;
The sailor's wife shrinks as she hears it blow,

And mournfully surveys the starless sky :
The hardy shepherd turns out fearlessly

To tend his fleecy charge in drifted snow,
And the poor homeless, houseless, child of woe
Sinks down, perchance, in dumb despair to die!

Happy the fireside student: happier still

The social circle round the blazing hearth. If, while these estimate aright the worth Of every blessing which their cup may fill, Their grateful hearts with sympathy can thrill For every form of wretchedness on earth.

BERNARD BARTON.

NIGHT.

RAIL, Night! pavilioned 'neath the rayless cope;
I love thy solemn state profoundly dark;
Thy sable pall; thy lurid throne of clouds,
Viewless, save by the lightning's flash; thy crown,
That boasts no starry gem; thy various voice,
That to the heart, with eloquence divine,
Now in soft whispers, now in thunder speaks.
Nor undelightful in thy reign to him

Who wakeful gilds, with reveries bright, thy gloom,
Or listens to the music of the storm,

And meditates on Him who sways its course.

GRAHAME.

NIGHT.

(IS night—and in darkness the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hope they excited hath perished, and truth Laments o'er the wrecks they are leaving behind. 'Tis midnight—and high o'er the regions of riot

Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose; And man, soothed from revel, and lulled into quiet, Forgets in his slumbers the weight of his woes.

How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven,
Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest!
Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,

To omen a something like hope to the breast.
Hark! how the lone night wind uptosses the forest!
A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals;
But ah! 'tis the tempest of fortune that sorest
The bosom of man in his solitude feels!

Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust,
Whose bosom with mutual affection did burn?
Alas! they have gone to their homes in the dust,
The grass rustles drearily over their urn:

While I, in a populous solitude, languish

'Mid foes that beset me, and friends that are cold: Ah! the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish, That the heart may be widowed before it is old!

Affection can soothe but its votaries an hour,
Doomed soon in the blaze that it raised to depart;
And, ah! disappointment has poison and power
To ruffle and sour the most patient of heart.
Too oft 'neath the barb-pointed arrows of malice,
Has merit been destined to bear and to bleed;
And they, who of pleasure have emptied the chalice,
Have found that the dregs were full bitter indeed.

Let the storms of adversity lour; 'tis in vain,

Though friends should forsake me, and foes should combine;

Such may kindle the breasts of the weak to complain,
They only can teach resignation to mine;

For, far o'er the regions of doubt, or of dreaming,
The spirit beholds a less perishing span;

And bright through the tempest the rainbow is streaming:
The sign of forgiveness from heaven to man!

D. M. MOIR.

NIGHT.

HE crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; The courteous host, and all-approving guest, Again to that accustomed couch must creep Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep; And man, o'erlaboured with his being's strife, Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life: There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, Hate's working brain, and lulled ambition's wile; O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, And quenched existence crouches in a grave. What better name may slumber's bed become? Night's sepulchre, the universal home,

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline:

Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.

BYRON.

NIGHT.

OUL-SOOTHING season! period of repose,
Or introverted thought, which day debars;
Can language paint, can poetry disclose
The magic of thy silence, dews, and stars?
When the loud mirth of day no longer mars
Our better feelings with its empty sound;
When we forget awhile its cruel jars

Our souls in worldly intercourse have found,
How welcome are thy shades, with peaceful quiet crowned

They gather round us, from their silent wings
Scattering kind blessings; to the wretched, dear.

Prosperite te gandy daylight clings,

But that at sorrow's chosen, meek compeer:
That hides: her from the cold and heartless sneer
I weald's sleek minions, pride's contemptuous crew;
Fishes her sigh, concen'st her bitter tear,

Ana in zhy healing influence, dost renew
Ber toeziende te bem-her courage to subdue.

And I thou didst not this, there is in thee
Yæ amale score for poetry's inir themes:
For thou, Night, a guardian of the key
That opes the portal of the land of dreams.
Touched by the spell our roxing fancy teems
With things to which day has no parallel:
Beings toe deureous in te brave its beams,
Much zoo ethereal upon earth to dwell;
And glares, dreams alone render accessible.

Waring, however, these ty viller fights,
As vers ideal, mahsunil, min:

And passing or the soothing calm delights
Administered to somer's pallid train ;--
Enough is led se bid us bless thy reign;
For the revolving periods health renew
Unto our wearied nature; dush again

Beauty's wan check, curtain her eye of blue,
Or with fresh splendours Ell its orb of darker huc.

One topic more, still Night! will yet intrude
Upon my serious thought while hymning thee:
Thou art the emblem, type, similitude,

Of silence yet more awful; although we

Are loathe the approach of death's dark night to see!
Father of mercies! thou whose goodness gave

Thy Son beloved, man's sacrifice to be,

Grant that in life's last hour my soul may crave,

Nor crave in vain, his love to light me through the grave.

BARTON