Oh! who can witness this, Nor feel the throb of bliss With which creation's every pulse seems beating? Or who, 'mid such a store Of rapture flowing o'er, The tribute of the heart forbear repeating? Yet have I known an hour Of more subduing power Than this of beauty glowing-music gushing- Diffused a holier balm, Whose watch-word, "peace be still!" the inmost heart was hushing. It is the close of day, When Evening's hues array The western sky in all their radiant lustre; His goal of glory won, 'Tis when day's parting light, Dazzling no more the sight, Its chastening glory to the eye is granting, Unearthly hopes and fears, And voiceless feelings in the heart are panting. While thus the western sky With thrilling beauty, touching, and endearing;- What still of earth is fair Borrows its beauty there, Though every borrowed charm is disappearing. Ere yet those charms grow dim, Creation's vesper hymn, Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending; Till, with that song of praise, The hearts of those who gaze With solemn feelings of delight are blending. Then from those portals bright Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision; These pass like thought away! Rest on the heart,—as dew-drops round adorning Feed them through night's dark hours, And keep them fresh and living till the morning. Thus should the sunset hour, With soul-absorbing power, Nurse by its glories the immortal spirit ; To realms of cloudless light, Regions its God had formed it to inherit. Fair, bright, and sweet is Morn! With more than earthly thought, T is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, As Twilight melts beneath the moon away. BYRON. TWILIGHT. LOVE thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll The calm of evening steals upon my soul, Sublimely tender, solemnly serene, Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene. I love thee, Twilight, for thy gleams impart Their dear, their dying influence to my heart, When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind Awakens all the music of the mind, And Joy and Sorrow, as the spirit burns, And Hope and Memory sweep the chord by turns. MONTGOMERY, TWILIGHT SCENE IN ITALY. HE moon is up, and yet it is not night— Of glory streams along the Alpine height Melted to one vast Iris of the West, While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest A single star is at her side, and reigns Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar. Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change; a paler shadow strews Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang embues The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is grey. BYRON. THE SONG OF NIGHT. COME to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts:- for every flower sweet dew, The glory of its birth. Not one which glimmering lies But, through its veins of beauty, so receives I come with every star, Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track I come with peace; I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, On my own heart I lay The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath I come with mightier things! Who calls me silent? I have many tones,— I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, I bring them from the past: From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make their tone heard at last. |