If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter's robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the grey grass and bare boughs;
If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherish'd these my kindred ;-then forgive
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favour now.
Ebening on Lake Leman.
Ir is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ;
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven !
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:-
All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentred in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty ;-'t would disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places, and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With nature's realms of worship, earth and air; Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! BYRON.
The Alps at Daybreak.
THE sunbeams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.
The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges.rude,
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd like an eagle's nest on high.
THE sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh, night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder: Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
And this is in the night: Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black, and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?
Summer Longings.
АH! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May-
Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May-
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying
All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.
Ah! my heart is pain'd with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May-
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;
Where, in laughing and in sobbing
Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings;
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away:
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!
ALL day the low-hung clouds have dropt
Their garner'd fulness down;
All day that soft grey mist hath wrapt
Hill, valley, grove, and town.
There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature,
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life, or living creature;
Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing:
I could have half-believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear-I love it well-
The rain's continuous sound,
Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,
Down straight into the ground.
For leafy thickness is not yet
Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green.
Sure, since I look'd at early morn,
Those honeysuckle buds
Have swell'd to double growth; that thorn
Hath put forth larger studs;
That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,
The milk-white flowers revealing;
Even now, upon my senses first
Methinks their sweets are stealing.
The very earth, the steamy air,
Is all with fragrance rife ;
And grace and beauty everywhere
Are flushing into life.
Down, down they come-those fruitful stores!
Those earth-rejoicing drops!
A momentary deluge pours,
Then thins, decreases, stops;
And ere the dimples on the stream
Have circled out of sight,
Lo! from the west, a parting gleam
Breaks forth, of amber light.
But yet behold-abrupt and loud
Comes down the glittering rain ;
The farewell of a passing cloud,
The fringes of her train.
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