A slumberous sound, a sound that Before me rose an avenue brings The feelings of a dream, As, when a bell no longer swings, O'er meadow, lake, and stream. Bright visions, came to me, Like ships upon the sea; Ere Fancy has been quelled; And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, Water the green land of dreams, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, I sought the woodlands wide. It was a sound of joy! And rocked me in their arms so wild! And ever whispered, mild and low, "Come, be a child once more! And waved their long arms to and fro,| Into the woodlands hoar, - Into the solemn wood, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Of tall and sombrous pines ; Spread a vapour soft and blue, Like a fast-falling shower, "The land of Song within thec lies, Not mountains capped with snow, The bending heavens below. Sees not its depths, nor bounds. Pallid lips say, 'It is past! We can return no more!' "Look then into thine heart, and Yes, into Life's deep stream! HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. I felt her presence, by its spell of In the world's broad field of battle, might, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! I heard the sounds of sorrow and Act,-act in the living Present! delight, The manifold, soft chimes, Heart within, and God o'erhead. That fill the haunted chambers of the Lives of great men all remind us, Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,― From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. wwwww FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour wall; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O star of strength! I see thee stand Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, And calm, and self-possessed. O fear not in a world like this, "They shall all bloom in fields of Know how sublime a thing it is light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.' " And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS. To suffer and be strong. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, THE night is come, but not too soon; No other voice nor sound was there, And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell, Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmèd air. Down the broad valley, fast and far, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; I have read, in the marvellous heart of No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. |