IV. NIGHT.

What trite old folly unharmonious sages

In dull books write or prattle day by day,

Of sin original and growing crime!

And commentating the advance of time,

Say wrong has fostered wrong for countless ages,

The strong ones marking down the weak for prey.

They bruit of wars — that thunder heard in dreams;

Huge insurrections, and dynastic changes

Resolved in blood. I marvel they of thought

By apprehensions are so often wrought

To state as fact what unto all men seems,

Who watch cloud-struggles blown through stormy ranges!

Why fill they not with love the printed page,

Illuminating, as yon moon the night,

Serenely shining on a world of beauty,

Where love moves ever hand in hand with duty;

And life, a long aspiring pilgrimage,

Makes labour but a pastime of delight!

It was delightfulness to him I found

Whistling this afternoon behind his team,

That stepped an easy comfortable pace;

While off the mould-iron curved in rolling grace

Dark earth, wave lapping wave, without a sound;

And all passed by me blissful, like a dream.

And those I noticed hoeing on the hill

Talking familiarly of homely things,

A daughter's marriage-day, a son's first child;

How the good Squire at length was reconciled,

Had overlooked the pheasant shot by Will:—

Chirruping on as any cricket sings.

And that complete Arcadian pastoral,

The piping boy who watched his feeding sheep;

And, as a little bird o'erflows with joy,

Piped on for hours my happy shepherd boy!

While, coiled below, his faithful animal

Basked in the sunshine, blinking, half asleep.

This silent night-wind bloweth heavenly pure;

Like dimpled warmth of an infantine face.

Lo, glimmering starlike in yon balmy vale

The village lights; each tells a little tale

Of humble comfort, where its inmates, sure

In hope, feel grateful in their lowly place.

And here My Lady's lighted oriel shines

A giant glowworm in the odorous gloom.

Ah, stands she smiling there in loose white gown,

Hearing the music of her future drown

The stillness and hushed whispering of the vines,

Whose lattice-clasping leaves o'ershade her room!

Or kneels she worshipful beside her bed

In large-eyed hope and bended lowliness,

To crave that He, the Giver, may impart

Enough of strength to bind her trembling heart

Steadfast and true; and that her will be led

To own His chastening cares pain but to bless?

Or sits she at her mirror, face to face

With her own loveliness? ( O blessed land

That owns such twin perfections both together;

If guessed aright! ) Ah, me; I wonder whether

She now her braided opulent hair unlace

And drop it billowing from her moonwhite hand!

Then what a fount of wealth to lover's sight!

Her loosened hair, I heard her mother say,

When she is seated, tumbles to the floor

And trails the length of her own foot and more:

And dare I, lapt in bliss, dream my delight

Ere long shall watch its rippling softness play?

Dare I, O vanity! but do I dare

Think she now looks upon the sorry rhyme

I wrote long ere that well-loved setting sun,

What time love conquering dread My Lady won,

While I unblessed, adored in mute despair:—

Even now I gave it her at parting time.

“O let me, Dearest, fall and once impart

My grieving love to ease this stricken heart;

But once, O Love, to fall and rest

This wearied head of mine,

But once to weep in thine

Unutterably tender breast;

And on my drooping lids feel thy young breath;

To feel it playing sweeter were than death.

“Than death were sweet to one bent down and old,

And worn with persecutions manifold;

Whose stoutness long endured alone

The charge of bitter foes,

Till, furious, he rose,

When smitten, all were overthrown.

Who then of those, his dearest, none could find,

They having fled as leaves before the wind.

“As he would pass, when to his failing sight

Their forms stand in a vision heavenly bright;

And piercing through his drowsed ears

Enters their tuneful cry

Of summons, audibly,

Thither where flow no mourners’ tears:

So, dearest Love, my spirit, sore oppressed,

Would weeping in thy bosom sink to rest.”

Her window now is darkness, save the sheen

Glazed on it by the moon. Within she lies

Her supple shape relaxed, in dreamful rest,

And folds contentment babelike to her breast,

Whose beauteous heaving, even and serene,

Beats mortal time to heavenly lullabies.