THE FUTURE. Haply, the river of Time, As it grows, as the towns on its marge On a wider, statelier stream,- And the width of the waters, the hush As the pale waste widens around him,— As the banks fade dimmer away, As the stars come out, and the night-wind Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 153 ARNOLD. THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness 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, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters; 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, Who, through long days of labour, Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet And come like the benediction Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music; LONGFELLOW. ས THE SONG OF "O night, And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, I COME to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts!--for every flower sweet dew, Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, I come with every star: Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, I come with peace :-I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, 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 I come with mightier things! I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, 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 |