147. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.
INVOCATION TO NIGHT.-J. F. HOLLINGS.
COME, with thy sweeping cloud and starry vest,
Mother of counsel, and the joy which lies
In feelings deep, and inward sympathies,
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 shine-
Silence, and peace, and stern magnificence,
And awe, and throned solemnity-are thine!
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.
'Rev. GEORGE CROLY, rector of St. Stephens, Walbrook, London, was born in Ireland, toward the close of the last century, and was educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Talented, and astonishingly industrious, he has written much both in prose and verse. He is a correct and elegant poet, and his prose style is clear, rich, idiomatic, and at times re markably eloquent
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;
But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
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 hush'd 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.
NIGHT AT CORINTH.-BYRON.
'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down:
HARTLEY COLERIDGE, eldest son of SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, was born at Clevedown, a small village near Bristol, England, September 19th, 1796. He received his degree at Oriel College, Oxford, in 1821, though he was principally educated by desultory reading, and by the living voice of his father, WORDSWORTH, LLOYD, WILSON, and DE QUINCEY. He passed about two years in London, writing sonnets and small pieces for the "London Magazine;" conducted a boys' school, for five years, at Ambleside, Westmoreland county; and then removed to Grasmere, where he resided during the remainder of his life, supporting himself mostly by his pen, writing in part for "Blackwood's Magazine." He died on the 6th of January, 1849. Some of his poems are exquisite. ly 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. The night here described is supposed to have been in 1715, when Corinth, then in possession of the Venetians, was besieged by the Turks.
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 turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shōre lay there
Calm, clear, and ăzure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmur'd meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillow'd on the waves;
The banners droop'd along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling:
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill,
And echo answer'd from the hill;
And the wild hum of that wild hōst
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's' voice in air
In midnight call to wonted' prayer.
A SUMMER'S NIGHT.-P. J. BAILEY.
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 lõnger 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;
'Muezzin, one appointed by the Turks, who do not use bells for the purpose, to summon the religious to their devotions, to the extent of his voice. Wonted (wůnt' ed).
When, like a drop of water, greaten'd 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 mock'd
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!
So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality
The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse
Their glory, heightening to the starry blue
Of all embosoming eternity.
Who that hath lain lonely on a high hill,
In the imperious silence of full noon,—
With nothing but the clear dark sky about him,
Like GOD'S HAND laid upon the head of earth,-
But hath expected that some natural spirit
Should start out of the universal air,
And, gathering his cloudy robe around him,
As one in act to teach mysterious things,
Explain that he must die?
NIGHT AND DEATH.-WHITE.'
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?
Yet '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 widen'd in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay conceal'd
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood reveal'd,
'JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE, & 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. Hesperus, the evening star.
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 balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's car,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless 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 deemeth it
A metaphor of peace;-all form a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence, undisturb'd, might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.
THE MOON. CHARLOTTE SMITH.'
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:
'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 popu lar, appeared in 1788. Her novels and other prose works, in all about forty volumes, were much admired by SIR WALTER SCOTT and other contemporaries; but she is 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.
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