Soothing, like founts of health, the wearied breast. Lo! o'er the distant hills the day-star's crest
Sinks redly burning; and the winds arise, Moving with shadowy gusts and feeble sighs Amid the reeds which veil the bittern's nest! Day hath its melody and light-the sense
Of mirth which sports round fancy's fairy mine; But the full power, which loftier aids dispense, To speed the soul where scenes unearthly shineSilence, and peace, and stern magnificence,
And awe, and throned solemnity—are thine!
II. A TWILIGHT PICTURE.-WHITTIER.
THE twilight deepened round us.
The great woods climbed the mountain at our back:
And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day
On the shorn greennèss of the clearing lay,
The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung.
With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred:
The bleat of sheep ǎlong the hill we heard,
The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well,
The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell;
Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate
Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight
Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung,
The welcome sound of supper-call to hear;
And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!
Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye,-
The few we liked, the one we loved,-
And the whole heart is
memory:
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze ;
Yet as the shadows round us lower,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;
But dark and lonely is the
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
IV. NIGHT.-COLERIDGE.1
THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The in-door note of in'dustry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread:
The voiceless flowers-how quietly they shed
Their nightly odors! and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds, that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps ;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hushed in peace: the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers, for a maid so fair :—
Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.
V. NIGHT AT CORINTH.2-BYRON.
'Tis midnight on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down:
Blue roll the waters: blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So widely, spiritually bright;—
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee ǎway,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shōre lay there
1 Hartley Coleridge, eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born at Clevedown, a small village near Bristol, England, September 19th, 1796. Some of his poems are exquisitely beautiful, and his sonnets are surpassed by few in the language. His prose works are remarkable for
brilliancy of imagery, beauty of thought, pure English style, and pleasing and instructive suggestions. He died on the 6th of January, 1849.
2 The night here described is supposed to have been in 1715, when Corinth, then in possession of the Venetians, was besieged by the Turks.
Calm, clear, and ăzure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shōne the crescent curling:
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill ;
And the wild hum of that wild host
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's' voice in air
In midnight call to wonted' prayer.
VI. A SUMMER'S NIGHT.-BAILEY.3
THE last high upward slant of sun on the trees,
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall,
Seems to console earth for the glory gone.
Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus.
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there;
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings!
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end.
It will wake no more till the all-revealing day;
When, like a drop of water, greatened bright
Into a shadow, it shall show itself,
With all its little tyrannous things and deeds,
Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God,—
Straight-like an infant's spirit, or a mocked
And mourning messenger of grace to man.
Would it had taken me too on its wings!
My end is nigh. Would I might die outright!
1 Mu ězí zin, one appointed by the Turks, who use no bells for the purpose, to summon the religious to their devotions, to the extent of his voice. ? Wonted, (wůnt' ed).
'Philip James Bailey, an English oet, was born in Nottingham, April
22d, 1816. He was educated in the schools of his native town and at the university of Glasgow. His first and most remarkable poem, "Festus," appeared in 1839. His principal publications since are the "Angel World" and "Mystic."
So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality
The emerald hues of deathlessnèss diffuse
Their glory, heightening to the starry blue
Of all embosoming eternity.
VII. NIGHT AND DEATH.-WHITE.1
MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yět 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus,' with the host of heaven came;
And lo! creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou madest us blind?
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ?-
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
How beautiful this night! The balmiëst sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this movelèss scene.
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,—
So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemèth it
A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene
1 Joseph Blanco White, a Spanish gentleman of Irish descent, who came to England in 1810, and devoted himself to literature, chiefly through
the magazines and periodical press. He was born in 1775, and died in 1841. Hěs pe rus, the evening star, especially Venus.
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthlinèss;
Where silence, undisturbed, might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.
IX. THE MOON.-CHARLOTTE SMITH,1
QUEEN of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way:
And while I gaze, thy mild and plăcid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest;
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene
Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!
X. THE STARS.-DARWIN."
ROLL on, ye stars; exult in youthful prime;
Mark with bright curves the printlèss steps of Time;
Near and more near your beamy cars approach,
And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach.
Flowers of the sky, ye, too, to age must yield,
Frail as your silken sisters of the field.
'Mrs. Charlotte Smith (Miss Turner) was born in King Street, St. James Square, London, May 4th, 1749. Her first collection of sonnets and other poems was very popular, passing through no less than eleven editions. Her first novel, "Emmeline," which was exceedingly popular, appeared in 1788. Her novels and other prose works, in all about forty volumes, were much admired by Sir Walter Scott nd other contemporaries; but she now most known and most valued
for her poetry, which abounds with touches of tenderness, grace, and beauty. She died on the 28th of October, 1806.
'Erasmus Darwin, an English physician, poet, and botanist, was born at Elton, in 1731, and after taking his degree at Edinburgh, pursued his professional career at Litchfield, from which place he removed to Derby, where he died in 1802. Dr. Darwin was an original thinker, a great adept in analogies, and an able versifier.
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