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The creeping mists that from the dark stream rise ; Now spread into a sea with islets broken,
And woodland points, now poised on the thin air:
In the black west the clouds a storm betoken,
And all things seem a spectral gloom to wear. The cautious bat resents the lingering light, And the long-folded sheep wonder it is not night.
Believe, the whole creation does not slumber
They hold no sympathy with sunny hours,
Wearing night's hues of tissued grey and umber:"Things put forth by the moon," and on the flowers
*Deut. xxxiii. 14.
Nourish'd that she gives birth to. These no light
Endure save hers, or what the glow-worm showers. All wondrous tokens of His sovereign might, Whose word ordain'd the moon to rule the night.
TO THE GLOW-WORM.
Thou fairy flame of wildly beaming light!
When Nature's tints in one unvaried hue
Of misty shadow fade, I love to view
Thine emerald blaze that gems the robe of Night. What means the tiny beacon? Say they right, Who deem it kindled for some winged mate,
Like that fond light (to liken small with great) Which o'er the Hellespont did erst invite
Th' heroic lover to his perilous visit?
Or, like a watch-fire, is it for defence—
To keep aloof each insect foe? Or is it
Of any other purpose to the wearer,
That mail of flame? Or does it warmth dispense? Or are there fays, and thou their lantern-bearer?
How lightly, fleetly glide away
The hours that bring no sorrow!
How softly melts the summer day
Into the bright to-morrow!
So, mirror'd in the quiet stream,
While motionless the waters seem,
So sweetly they beguile
The charmed eye; yet, never sleep,
Flow on, flow on, my quiet hours:
So long as the unwithering flowers
Of Love exhale their sweetness;
While, still unchanged, the imaged scene
Its beauty, and the unfading green
Upon its border lives.
When changed the scene, when fade those flowers,
Then faster, faster speed, my hours!
Flow on, and bear me to that clime
Beyond the niggard laws of time,
Its chances and its changes;
Where not a sigh for pleasures past
The present shall alloy,
Nor ev'n a shade of fear o'ercast
The never-palling joy;
Nor age suspend th' unfaltering song,
Nor ev'n eternity seem long.
IN FOUR SONNETS.
A GLORIOUS day! The village is afield:
Her pillow'd lace no thrifty housewife weaves,
Nor platters sit beneath the flowery eaves.
The golden fields an ample harvest yield;
every hand that can a sickle wield
Is busy now. Some stoop to bind the sheaves,
While to the o'erburden'd waggon one upheaves The load, among its streamers half conceal'd.
We heard the ticking of the lonely clock
Plain through each open door-all was so still,
For, busily dispersed, near every shock
Their hands with trailing ears the urchins fill. Where all is clear'd, small birds securely flock,
While full on lingering day the moon shines from