Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Where, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. Others, like vessels gilt with burnished gold, Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, While hands unseen, or chance directs their way; Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen Reclining on the deck was seen,
At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, The subject world slipped from his dotard rule. Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade; The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, And pale, and paler wax the changeful clouds. Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm; The silent dews of evening dropp'd like balm ; The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies, To chase the viewless insect through the skies; The bat began his lantern-loving flight, The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear; The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie, With idle hum, and careless, blundering eye; The little trusty watchman of pale night, The firefly, trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, And took his merry airy circuit round
The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, Where blossom'd clover, bathed in palmy dew, In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.
CIV. MANFRED'S SOLILOQUY.
THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man
and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learn'd the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering,-upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Cæsars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot-Where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ;— But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!
While Cæsars' chambers and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.-
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries, Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old !— The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.-
I SEE them on their winding way, About their ranks the moonbeams play ; Their lofty deeds and daring high Blend with the notes of victory.
And waving arms, and banners bright, Are glancing in the mellow light: They're lost and gone, the moon is past, The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast; And fainter, fainter, fainter still
The march is rising o'er the hill.
Again, again, the pealing drum,
The clashing horn-they come, they come; Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep In long and glittering files they sweep. And nearer, nearer, yet more near, Their softened chorus meets the ear; Forth, forth. and meet them on their way; The trampling hoofs brook no delay ; With thrilling fife and pealing drum, And clashing horn, they come, they come.
THOUGH friends are false, and leaders fail, And rulers quake with fear;
Though tamed the shepherd in the vale, Though slain the mountaineer; Though Spanish beauty fill their arms, And Spanish gold their purse--- Sterner than wealth's or war's alarms Is the wild Guerilla's course.
No trumpets range us to the fight. No signal sound of drum
Tells to the foe, that, in their might, The hostile squadrons come
No sunbeam glitters on our spears, No warlike tramp of steeds
Gives warning—for the first that hears Shall be the first that bleeds.
The night-breeze calls us from our bed, At dew-fall forms the line, And darkness gives the signal dread That makes our ranks combine : Or should some straggling moonbeam lie On copse or lurking hedge,
'Twould flash but from a Spaniard's eye, Or from a dagger's edge.
'Tis clear in the sweet vale below, And misty on the hill ;
The skies shine mildly on our foe,
But lour upon us still.
This gathering storm shall quickly burst
And spread its terrors far,
And at its front we'll be the first,
And with it go to war.
The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The liburnam on his birth-day— The tree is living yet
I remember, I remember,
When I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
WHY come not spirits from the realms of glory, To visit earth as in days of old?
The times of sacred writ, and ancient story;
Is heaven more distant, or is earth more cold?
Oft have I watched, when sunset clouds, receding, Waved like rich banners of a host gone by, To catch the gleam of some white pinion speeding Along the confines of the glowing sky.
And oft, when midnight stars, in distant chillness, Were calmly burning, listened late and long: But nature's pulse beat on, with solemn stillness, Bearing no echo of the seraph's song.
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