THE Day is earth, but holy Night is heav'n
To her a solitude of soul is giv'n,
Within whose depth, how beautiful to dream,
And fondly be, what others vainly seem !—
Oh! 'tis an hour of consecrated might,
For Earth's Immortals have adored the night;
In song or vision yielding up the soul
To the deep magic of her still control.
My own lov'd hour! there comes no hour like thee,
No world so glorious as thou form'st for me!
The fretful ocean of eventful day,-
To waveless nothing how it ebbs away!
As oft the chamber, where some haunted page
Renews a poet, or revives a sage
In pensive Athens, or sublimer Rome,
To mental quiet woos the Spirit home.
There stillness reigns,-how eloquently deep!
And soundless air, more beautiful than sleep.
Let Winter sway,-her dream-like sounds inspire:
The social murmur of a blazing fire;
The hail-drop, hissing as it melts away
In twinkling gleams of momentary play;
Or wave-like swell of some retreated wind,
In dying sadness echo'd o'er the mind,—
But gently ruffle into varied thought
The calm of feeling blissful night has brought.-
How eyes the spirit, with contented gaze,
The chamber mellow'd into social haze,
And smiling walls, where rank'd in solemn rows,
The wizard volumes of the mind repose!
Thus, well may hours like fairy waters glide, Till morning glimmers o'er their reckless tide; While dreams beyond the realm of day to view, Around us hover in seraphic hue;
Till Nature pines for intellectual rest,—
When home awakens, and the heart is blest;
Or, from the window reads our wand'ring eye
The starry language of Chaldean sky;
And gathers in that one vast gaze above,
A bright eternity of awe and love!
So heav'nly seems the visionary night: But, ah! the danger in its deep delight.— The mind, then beautified to fond excess, Will all things dare to brighten, or to bless: A world of sense more spiritual is made Than the stern eye of nature hath survey'd; Some false perfection which hath never been, By fancy woven, lives through ev'ry scene; But morn awakes, and, lo! the spells unwind, As daylight melts like darkness o'er the mind! The worldly coarseness of our common lot Recalls the shadows which the night forgot; Each dream of loftiness then dies away, And heav'n-light withers in the frown of Day!And then, the langour of each parching vein, And the hot weariness of heart and brain; That hideous shade of something dread to be,— Oh, fatal midnight! these are doom'd for thee. Each breeze comes o'er us with tormenting wing, Each pulse of sound an agony can bring;
As though the glory of neglected Light
Would task our torture to avenge her right!
Let Chatterton thy deathful charm reveal,
And mournful White, who from thy depth would steal
A placid sense of some unvision'd Power,
Around prevailing at thine earthless hour:
And oft, methinks, in loneliness of heart,
As noons of night in dreaming calm depart,
My room is sadden'd with the mingled gaze
Of those who martyr'd their ambitious days;
The turf-grass o'er their tombs,-I see it wave,
And visions waft me to a kindred grave!
NATIONAL REJOICINGS AFTER A VICTORY.
ENGLAND hath laid her sceptre on the deep,
And with her thunder, chased her ocean-foes
Like leaves before the breathing of a blast!
England hath rear'd her banners on the plain
Of battle, Victory waved them, and the world
Again shall echo with her haughty name.
And hence, a stormy rapture shakes the isle;
Hence the loud music of her hollow fanes,
Whether in cities emulously tower'd
Among the skies, or in lone hamlets seen,-
Still pouring out the language of the land;
With all those pageantries and fiery pomps
That hang and glitter from her window'd piles,
Emblazed with mottoes, and triumphal scenes.
Not one, to whom the name of country clings With spelling fondness, but this hour adores.
The old men feel the sunshine of far youth
Returning, fresh as when the hero glow'd.
The young,-lip, eye, and daring heart, are stirr'd;
Their very blood seems rippled with delight,
So deep the fulness of this warlike joy.
Yea, hollow cheeks of Sadness, and the brows
Of Poverty, and lean-faced Want itself,
Forget their nature in a share of fame!
NATIVE ASSOCIATIONS AND SYMPATHIES.
WHERE is the heart, unmoved by more than glee,
Where is the eye that kindles not to see
That spot, where first our beam of life began,
And youth put on the energies of man?
When far remote from youth's regretted scene,
Imagination sped the way between,
And hovering round each well-known spot, restored
All that the memory loved, and heart adored!
A sabbath bell recall'd the street we trod,
The holy morn, to hymn the name of God;
A ballad-singer, in his lonely strain,
Would thrill the bosom with delicious pain,
As oft beneath the moon's romantic ray
We mused on home, and friendship far away:-
Return'd, at length, again we glow to greet
Each favourite spot, and unforgotten street;
Once more on haunted wood and stream to gaze,
And clasp the shadow of departed days.
NAPOLEON! on the island rock thou sleep'st!
But such a storm thy spirit raised, so full
The swell of feeling born of thee, that time
Must lend his magic to allay the rush
And tempest of opinion into truth,
That, taming wonder, stamps thee as thou wert,——
A Tyrant! in whose passion for a power
Enthroned above all liberty and law,
Thou stand'st alone, unparagon'd; thy pride
Of domination tow'ring far o'er heights
Of monarchy, a shadow of mine own,
That scorn'd an equal, though he proved a God!
Oh! what a cloud on Liberty was thrown, How deep a gash her dreadless form profaned, When thy ambition march'd upon the world, Till Europe quail'd beneath thy sceptred arm !— Then perish'd hopes that cent'ries will not raise Again; then god-like spirits felt the pang, That now, when all thy battle-roar is hush'd, And Peace sits musing on the tomb of War, Is felt, an agony, too deep for words
To fathom, too sublime for slaves to feel!
Lo! where the tyrant felt a flood of wrath From Heaven pour'd down upon his guilty head,— Where first he knew himself a MAN!-Yon spires, With golden pinnacles that pierce the clouds, And river, winding by the pallid walls, Proclaim where unforgotten Moscow stands:
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