By me, when I behold Him not, My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold; JAMES MONTGOMERY. To the Evening Star. STAR that bringest home the bee, That send'st it from above, Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard, Star of love's soft interviews, Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven, Then wander o'er city and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wandCome, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, Thy brother Death came, and cried, Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Death will come when thou art dead, Sleep will come when thou art fled: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. To Night. THOMAS CAMPBELL. SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave, Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Moonrise. WHAT stands upon the highland? As though a starry island Were sinking down the skies? What makes the trees so golden? Like a veil of silver folden Round the white brow of a bride? The magic moon is breaking, Like a conqueror, from the east, She works, with touch ethereal, But may all Nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, O harvest Moon! 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes: His visionary views of joy! TO NIGHT. God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. Sons of luxury, to you Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo; Press ye still the downy bed, While feverish dreams surround your head; I will seek the woodland glade, Penetrate the thickest shade, Wrapped in Contemplation's dreams, While on the gale Shall softly sail The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful rise To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! To Night. 101 MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Night Song. THE moon is up in splendor, The heavens are calm and bright; A mist is rising silver-white. Night's curtains now are closing No more the sorrows of the dust. Translation of C. T. BROOKS. Song.-The Owl. WHEN cats run home and light is come, When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, SECOND SONG-TO THE SAME. THY tuwhits are lulled, I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yester night, So took echo with delight, |