NIGHT.

Night is the time to watch;
O'er ocean's dark expanse
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind.
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care,

Brooding on hours mis-spent, To see the spectre of Despair

Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think;

When, from the eye, the soul

Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole,

Discerns beyond the abyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray:

Our Saviour oft withdrew

To desert mountains far away;
So will his followers do,-

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends;-such death be mine.

LONG trails of cistus flowers
Creep on the rocky hill;
And beds of strong spear-mint

Grow round about the mill;

And from a mountain tarn above,

As peaceful as a dream,

Like to child unruly,

Though school'd and counsell'd truly,

Foams down the wild mill-stream!

THE MILL-STREAM.

The wild mill-stream it dasheth,

In merriment away,

And keeps the miller and his son
So busy all the day!

Into the mad mill-stream

The mountain roses fall; And fern and adder's-tongue Grow on the old mill-wall. The tarn is on the upland moor, Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain gashes The merry mill-stream dashes Down to the sea below;

But in the quiet hollows

The red trout groweth prime, For the miller and the miller's son To angle when they've time.

Then fair befall the stream

That turns the mountain mill, And fair befall the narrow road That windeth up the hill! And good luck to the countryman, And to his old grey mare, That upward toileth steadily, With meal-sacks laden heavily, In storms as well as fair! And good luck to the miller And to the miller's son;

And ever may the wind-wheel turn, While mountain waters run!

LOVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.

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