Of those whose eyes are only turned below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires: 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery; and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep; All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast, All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are LEAST alone; A truth which through our being then doth melt, And purifies from self; it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Binding all things with beauty; 'twould disarm The spectre death, had he substantial power to harm. Not vainly did the early Persian make With nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! The sky is changed!-and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness; ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder. Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:-Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, A portion of the tempest, and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, I love not man the less, but nature more, What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. BYRON. AN EVENING RHAPSODY. WRITTEN ON RICHMOND HILL. DEAR Evening! dear Evening! how calm is thy glory, How sweet are thy shadows, how soft is thy close, How blissful the time when the sun is descending With all that is tranquil and all that is still. shading, Illumed by its God on the verge of the tomb. The spirit that fain would be lull'd from the fever And when thy deep silence is pure, or but broken In holy communion, Great Spirit, with Thee? Expands to the first golden kiss of the sun: For that hour seems to speak of the time when the spirit Shall leave this dim prison of desolate clay; But at eve there's a solace more lovely than splendour, Are shut from the wrongs they have suffer'd, and yield To repose and to peace, and close up like the blossom A dew-drop in love has cemented and seal'd. The notes of the mavis, when plaintively trilling Her sweet vesper hymn from the blossoming thorn, Like some air-harp, o'er which the soft zephyrs are thrilling, Would temper the night breeze to those that would mourn; And when the proud grandeur of day is declining, To thoughts that eternity's reign cannot kill. Like some glow-worm's pure light through the darkening air, To cheer with its ray when the gloom seems appalling, And throw brilliance of hope on the tremor of prayer. Then come to me, ye that find rapture in weeping, And would linger in love with the slow-sinking sun; Yes. come to me then, while each floweret is sleeping, And the nightingale's earliest hymn is begun; |