Skywards unto that pure bright one ;

O! gentle heart hath she,

For, leaning down to earth, with pleasure, She lists its fond and prattling measure.

It is indeed a silent night

Of peace, of joy, and purest light ;-
No angry breeze, in surly tone,
Chides the old forest till it moan;
Or breaks the dreaming of the owl,
That, warder-like, on yon gray tower,
Feedeth his melancholy soul

With visions of departed power;
And o'er the ruins Time hath sped,
Nods sadly with his spectral head.

And lo! even like a giant wight
Slumbering his battle toils away,
The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright
With many a dazzling ray,

Lies stretched in vastness at my feet;
Voiceless the chamber and the street,
And echoless the hall ;--

Had Death uplift his bony hand
And smote all living on the land,
No deeper quiet could fall.
In this religious calm of night,
Behold, with finger tall and bright,
Each tapering spire points to the sky,
In a fond, holy ecstacy ;-

Strange monuments they be of mind,-
Of feelings dim and undefined,
Shaping themselves, yet not the less,
In forms of passing loveliness.

O God! this is a holy hour :-
Thy breath is o'er the land;
I feel it in each little flower

Around me where I stand,—
In all the moonshine scattered fair,
Above, below me, everywhere,—
In every dew-bead glistening sheen,
In every leaf and blade of green,—
And in this silence grand and deep,
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep.

The trees send forth their shadows long
In gambols o'er the earth,

To chase each other's innocence
In quiet, holy mirth;

O'er the glad meadows fast they throng,
Shapes multiform and tall ;

And lo! for them the chaste moonbeam,
With broadest light doth fall.

Mad phantoms all, they onward glide,-
On swiftest wind they seem to ride
O'er meadow, mount, and stream :
And now, with soft and silent pace,
They walk as in a dream,

While each bright earth-flower hides its face
Of blushes, in their dim embrace.

Men say, that in this midnight hour,
The disembodied have power

To wander as it liketh them,

By wizard oak and fairy stream,—
Through still and solemn places,
And by old walls and tombs, to dream,
With pale, cold, mournful faces.
I fear them not; for they must be
Spirits of kindest sympathy,

Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel The beauties of this calm night steal Like music o'er them, while they woo'd The luxury of Solitude.

Welcome, ye gentle spirits! then,

Who love and feel for earth-chained men,-
Who, in this hour, delight to dwell
By moss-clad oak and dripping cell,—
Who joy to haunt each age-dimmed spot,
Which ruder natures have forgot;
And, in majestic solitude,

Feel every pulse-stroke thrill of good
To all around, below, above ;—

Ye are the co-mates whom I love!

While, lingering in this moonshine glade,
I dream of hopes that cannot fade;
And pour abroad those phantasies
That spring from holiest sympathies
With Nature's moods, in this glad hour
Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power,
When the busy stir of man is gone,
And the soul is left with its God alone!

XIV.

THE WATER! THE WATER!

THE Water! the Water !

The joyous brook for me,

That tuneth, through the quiet night,

Its ever-living glee.

The Water! the Water!

That sleepless merry heart,

Which gurgles on unstintedly,
And loveth to impart

H

To all around in some small measure

Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The Water! the Water!

The gentle stream for me,

That gushes from the old gray stone,
Beside the alder tree.

The Water! the Water!

That ever-bubbling spring

I loved and looked on while a child,

In deepest wondering,

And asked it whence it came and went, And when its treasures would be spent.

The Water! the Water !

The merry, wanton brook,
That bent itself to pleasure me,
Like mine own shepherd crook.
The Water! the Water!

That sang so sweet at noon,
And sweeter still at night, to win

Smiles from the pale proud moon,

And from the little fairy faces

That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

The Water! the Water!

The dear and blessed thing

That all day fed the little flowers

On its banks blossoming.

The Water! the Water!

That murmured in my ear, Hymns of a saint-like purity,

That angels well might hear;

And whisper in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.

The Water! the Water!

Where I have shed salt tears,
In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.
The Water! the Water!
Where I have happy been,

And showered upon its bosom flowers
Culled from each meadow green,
And idly hoped my life would be
So crowned by love's idolatry.

The Water! the Water !

My heart yet burns to think
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth,
For parched lip to drink.

The Water! the Water !

Of mine own native glen ;

The gladsome tongue I oft have heard,
But ne'er shall hear again;
Though fancy fills my ear for aye
With sounds that live so far away!

The Water! the Water!

The mild and glassy wave,

Upon whose gloomy banks I've longed*

To find my silent grave.

The Water! the Water !

O bless'd to me thou art;
Thus sounding in life's solitude,
The music of my heart,

And filling it, despite of sadness,
With dreamings of departed gladness.

* Upon whose BROOMY banks I've longed.-MS. copy.