ALL round was still and calm; the noon of night
Was fast approaching up the unclouded sky
The glorious Moon pursued her path of light,
And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh:
No sound save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh
Could reach the ear; and that so softly blew,
It scarcely stirred, in sweeping lightly by,
The acacia's airy foliage; faintly too
It kissed the jasmine's stars which just below me grew.
Before me, scattered here and there, some trees
Whose massy outline of reposing shade,
Ran broken by that faint and fitful breeze,
With the clear sky a lovely contrast made:
"Twas Nature in her chastest charms arrayed!
How could I then abruptly leave such scene?
I could not; for the beauties it displayed
To me were dearer than the dazzling shene
Of noon's effulgent hour, or Morning's sparkling mien.
THE hours have danced their joyous round
Adorned in flowers of May;
Till each in turn, with mercy crowned,
Has come and passed away.
The constant Sun has run his race
Athwart the boundless deep;
And ne'er amid that trackless space
Has failed his path to keep.
The earth has drunk the morning dew,
And fed her flowery train;
The flowers have spread their charms to view,
And decked the earth again.
Now Evening's lengthened shadows spread
To curtain them around,
And each reclines her modest head,
In gentle slumbers bound.
Beasts, strong to labour, o'er the lea
Have drawn the cumbrous plough;
And feed in pastures glad and free,
Their toil accomplished now.
Laborious man fulfils his task,
And seeks repose; but I-
Is mine accomplished?-let me ask-
And conscience shall reply.
Birds, beasts, and trees, unmoved by choice,
Have each improved the day,
Obedient still to Nature's voice :-
But whose did I obey?
Were Christ's commands before my sight
In all I thought and spoke?
And have I borne His burden light,
And worn His easy yoke?
Has pride or wrath disturbed my breast,
Or wishes wild and vain?
Has sinful sloth my powers possessed
And bound them in its chain?
Has not my resolution failed?
Lord, search, for Thou didst see; And has not base self-love prevailed Instead of love to Thee?
Did I this day, for small or great,
My own pursuits forego,
To lighten by a feather's weight
The mass of human wo?
'Mid cares and hopes and pleasures mean,
With eager fondness sought,
Oh, has one glance at things unseen
Sublimed my earthly thought?
Has grace, descending from above,
This evil heart possessed?
In meekness, patience, truth, and love,
To all around expressed?
Great is the peace such grace bestows
'Mid storms of earthly strife;
And calm and sweet is their repose
Who live this hidden life.
If thus my cheerful hours have sped,
How blest the day's decline!
'Tis past!-but though for ever fled,
To-Morrow still is mine.
THERE is an hour when leaves are still,
And winds sleep on the wave;
When far beneath the closing clouds
The Day hath found a grave;
And Stars, that at the note of dawn
Begin their circling flight,
Return, like sun-tired birds, to seek
The sable boughs of Night.
The curtains of the mind are closed,
And slumber is most sweet,
And visions to the heart of men
Direct their fairy feet;
The wearied wing hath gained a tree,
Pain sighs itself to rest,
And Beauty's bridegroom lies upon
The pillow of her breast.
There is a feeling in that hour
Which tumult ne'er hath known,
Which Nature seems to dedicate
To silent things alone;
The spirit of the lonely wakes
As rising from the dead,
And finds its shroud adorned with flowers,
Its night-lamp newly fed.
The mournful Moon her rainbows hath,
And 'mid the blight of all
That garlands life some blossoms live,
Like lilies on a pall;
Thus while to lone Affliction's couch
Some stranger-joy may come;
The bee that hoardeth sweets all day
Hath sadness in its hum.
Yet some there are whose fire of years
Leaves no remembered spark,
Whose summer-time itself is bleak,
Whose very day-break dark.
The stem though naked still may live,
The leaves though perished cling,
But if at first the root be cleft,
It lies a branchless thing.
And oh! to such-long hallowed nights
Their patient music send;
The hours like drooping angels walk,
More graceful as they bend,
And Stars emit a hope-like ray,
That melts as it comes nigh,
And nothing in that calm hath life,
That doth not wish to die.
O'ER the heath the heifer strays
Free, the furrowed task is done,
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnished by the setting sun.
Now he hides behind a hill,
Sinking from a golden sky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye?
Trudging as the ploughmen go,
(To the smoking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengthened o'er the level ground.
Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome,
To their high-built airy beds
See the rooks returning home!
As the lark, with varied tune,
Carols to the Evening loud;
Mark the mild resplendent Moon
Breaking through a parted cloud !
Now the hermit owlet peeps
From the barn, or twisted brake;
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs,
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Tripping through the silken grass,
O'er the path-divided dale;
Mark the rose-complexioned lass
With her well-poised milking pail.
Linnets, with unnumbered notes,
And the Cuckoo bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu !
It was an Eve of Autumn's holiest mood;
The corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
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