THE FUTURE.

Haply, the river of Time,

As it grows, as the towns on its marge
Fling their, wavering lights

On a wider, statelier stream,-
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early monotonous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.

And the width of the waters, the hush
Of the grey expanse where he floats,
Freshening its current and spotted with foam,
As it draws to the ocean, may strike
Peace to the soul of the man on its breast;

As the pale waste widens around him,—

As the banks fade dimmer away,

As the stars come out, and the night-wind
Brings up the stream

Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

153

ARNOLD.

THE DAY IS DONE.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters;
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time;

THE DAY IS DONE.

155

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music;
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

LONGFELLOW.

ས

THE SONG OF
OF NIGHT.*

"O night,

And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!"-Byron.

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts!--for every flower sweet dew,
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies

Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star:

Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace :-I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.

Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented under the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms.

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

157

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe; and, sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past : From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb:

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.