Voices of the Night. Πότνια πότνια νύξ, ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνων βροτῶν, Ερεβόθεν ἔθι· μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος ̓Αγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμον· ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπό τε συμφορᾶς διοιχόμεθ, οἰχόμεθα. PRELUDE. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, Alternate come and go; Or, where the denser grove receives A slumberous sound, brings The feelings of a dream,As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings that O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea; EURIPIDES. Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere fancy has been quelled; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, I feel the freshness of the streams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; And ever whispered, mild and low, "Come, be a child once more !" Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Thou art no more a child! "The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Of iron branches sounds! Then comes the fearful wintry blast; We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright,Be these henceforth thy theme." HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls. I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before: Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. I heard the sounds of sorrow and Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe delight, The manifold, soft chimes, this prayer; Descend with broad-winged flight, That fill the haunted chambers of the The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. most fair, The best beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depress'd and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have nought that is fai saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is And the mother gave, in tears and pain, sweet to me, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, Within my breast there is no light, I give the first watch of the night The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Large desires, with most uncertain issues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field, |