Till, with that song of praise,

The hearts of those who gaze

With solemn feelings of delight are blending.

Then from those portals bright
A farewell gleam of light

Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision;
And, through the folding doors,
The eye of thought explores
Seraphic forms and phantasies Elysian.

These pass like thought away!
Yet may their hallowed sway

Rest on the heart,- —as dew-drops round adorning
The drooping silent flowers,—

Feed them through night's dark hours, And keep them fresh and living till the morning.

Thus should the sunset hour,

With soul-absorbing power,

Nurse by its glories the immortal spirit;
And plume its wings for flight

To realms of cloudless light,

Regions its God had formed it to inherit.

Fair, bright, and sweet is Morn!
When day-light, newly born,

In all its beauty is to sense appealing;
Yet Eve to me is fraught

With more than earthly thought,
And purer touches of immortal feeling!

BARTON.

TWILIGHT.

T is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word;

And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.

Each flower the dews have lightly wet,

And in the sky the stars are met,

And on the wave is deeper blue,

And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

As Twilight melts beneath the moon away.

BYRON.

TWILIGHT.

LOVE thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll
The calm of evening steals upon my soul,
Sublimely tender, solemnly serene,

Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene.

I love thee, Twilight, for thy gleams impart
Their dear, their dying influence to my heart,
When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind
Awakens all the music of the mind,

And Joy and Sorrow, as the spirit burns,

And Hope and Memory sweep the chord by turns.
Twilight! I love thee, let thy glooms increase,
Till every feeling, every pulse is peace;
Slow from the sky the light of day declines,
Clearer within the dawn of glory shines,
Revealing, in the hour of nature's rest,
A world of wonders in the poet's breast:
Deeper, O Twilight! then thy shadows roll,
An awful vision opens on my soul.

MONTGOMERY

TWILIGHT SCENE IN ITALY.

HE moon is up, and yet it is not night-
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea

Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the Day joins the past Eternity,

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest
Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature proclaimed her order;-gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,

Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows,

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,

Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,

Their magical variety diffuse :

And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day

Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang embues
With a new colour, as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is grey.

BYRON.

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts:- for every flower sweet dew,
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew

The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves,

But, through its veins of beauty, so receives

A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star,

Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,

Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace; I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!

Who calls me silent? I have many tones,—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done.

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,

From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make their tone heard at last.

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!