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EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black
wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.
On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous
gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and
devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of
the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers
and confessions Unto the night, as it went on its way, like a silent
Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shad
ows and night dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of
the oak trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure
less prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies. Art thou so near unto me, and yet cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does
not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the
prairie! Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood
lands around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in
thy slumbers. Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the
heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had czased to marvel
and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of
that temple As if a hand had appeared and written upon them,
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded
about thee?” Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill
sounded Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neigh
boring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into
silence. “ Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns
of darkness; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow!"
-H. W. Longfellow.
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the
fire-fies, Wandered alone, and she cried,
"O Gabriel! O my beloved'
“One Name is Elizabeth."-Ben Jonson,
Quiet talk she liketh best,
In a bower of gentle looks,-
Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.