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
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth, o'er gazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The spirit in whose honour shrines are weak,
Uprear'd of human hands. Come and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,

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,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's
birth.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel

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,
When the mist on the valley grows clouded and hoary,
And this soft-flowing river hath looks of repose:
Thy lights and thy shadows, so tenderly stealing,
Will soften the bosom while charming the eye,
And the soul hath a charter in each gush of feeling,
That tells her she is too exalted to die.

How blissful the time when the sun is descending
With a deep ruby splendour behind the gray hill;
And our thoughts, like the twilight, seem peacefully
blending,

With all that is tranquil and all that is still.
Then the wild-brier rose, in autumnal airs fading,
Seems gifted once more with the blush of its bloom,
Like the spirit, whose visions no dark doubts are

shading,

Illumed by its God on the verge of the tomb.
Oh! sweet to the ear when the night airs are coming,
Is the soft, timid tread of the wandering fawn;
And sweetly the dull and monotonous humming
Of the beetle's night song o'er the spirit is borne,-

The spirit that fain would be lull'd from the fever
That daylight still brings into tremulous birth,
And longs for the hour of repose, to deliver
Itself from the heart-gnawing thraldom of earth.
Yes! welcome to me is thy coming, dear Even,
And dear thy red ray, glowing bright in the West;
For surely thy smiles hold a mandate from heaven,
To kindle a love in the untainted breast;

And when thy deep silence is pure, or but broken
By the fall of the leaf, or the hum of the bee,
Will it not breathe high thoughts that may only be
spoken

In holy communion, Great Spirit, with Thee?
There is joy in the heart when the dawn is just waking,
And throws down, all jocund, her mantle of dun;
And a rapture when nature, from night's embrace
breaking,

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;
And shall soar, unencumber'd by guilt, to inherit
The unfading joys of an unending day.

But at eve there's a solace more lovely than splendour,
In her brightest of moments, can give to the mind;
For her soft western smile is so touchingly tender,
And so sweet are the odours that float on the wind,
That the storm-bruised heart and the tempest-rent
bosom,

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,
Will soften the dun of each shadow, and bring
A balm to the heart, in its sorrows repining,
To lessen their weight, and to draw forth their sting.
The gloom of the twilight, though silently sealing
The eye and the ear in a fetter'd controul,
Impregnates the breast with some glorious feeling,
And wraps, in the pride of its musings, the soul;
And darkness herself, whose wing passeth over
The brow, like some fiend sent by terror to chill,
Appeals to the heart, with a voice that would move
her

To thoughts that eternity's reign cannot kill.
Then may not the spirit, thus big with emotion,
So matchless, so high, so pure, and refined,
Soar upwards to heaven on the wings of devotion,
And leave the gross feelings of nature behind?
May not Faith beam more bright as the shadows
are falling,

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;