NIGHT, stern, eternal, and alone,
Girded with solemn silence round,
Majestic on his starless throne,
Sat brooding o'er the vast profound-
And there unbroken darkness lay,
Deeper than that which veils the tomb,
While circling ages wheel'd away
Unnoted mid the voiceless gloom,
Then moved upon the waveless deep
The quickening Spirit of the Lord,
And broken was its pulseless sleep
Before the Everlasting Word!
"Let there be light!" and listening earth,
With tree, and plant, and flowery sod,
"In the beginning" sprang to birth,
Obedient to the voice of GOD.
Then, in his burning track, the sun
Trod onward to his joyous noon,
And in the heavens, one by one,
Cluster'd the stars around the moon-
In glory bathed, the radiant day
W 'ore like a king his crown of lightAnd, girdled by the "Milky Way," How queenly look'd the star-gemm'd night!
"LET THERE BE LIGHT."
Bursting from choirs celestial, rang
Triumphantly the notes of song;
The morning stars together sang
In concert with the heavenly throng;
And earth, enraptured, caught the strain
That thrill'd along her fields of air,
Till every mountain-top and plain
Flung back an answering echo there!
Creator! let thy Spirit shine
The darkness of our souls within,
And lead us by thy grace divine
From the forbidden paths of sin;
And may that voice which bade the earth
From Chaos and the realms of Night,
From doubt and darkness call us forth
To God's own liberty and light!
Thus, made partakers of Thy love,
The baptism of the Spirit ours,
Our grateful hearts shall rise above,
'Renew'd in purposes and powers;
And songs of joy again shall ring
Triumphant through the arch of heaven-
The glorious songs which angels sing,
Exulting over souls forgiven!
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
OUR ancient church! its lowly tower,
Beneath the loftier spire,
Is shadow'd when the sunset hour
Clothes the tall shaft in fire;
It sinks beyond the distant eye,
Long ere the glittering vane,
High wheeling in the western sky,
Has faded o'er the plain.
Like sentinel and nun, they keep
Their vigil on the green;
One seems to guard, and one to weep,
The dead that lie between;
And both roll out, so full and near,
Their music's mingling waves, They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear Leans on the narrow graves.
The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,
Whose seeds the winds have strown
So thick beneath the line he reads,
They shade the sculptured stone;
The child unveils his cluster'd brow,
And ponders for a while
The graven willow's pendent bough,
Or rudest cherub's smile,
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD,
But what to them the dirge, the knell?
These were the mourner's share;
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell
Throbb'd through the beating air;
The rattling cord,—the rolling stone,-
The shelving sand that slid,
And, far beneath, with hollow tone
Rung on the coffin's lid.
The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green,
Then slowly disappears;
The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years;
But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,
No lip the silent dust may claim,
That press'd the breathing clay.
Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down
Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides,
The patriarchs of the town;
Hast thou a tear for buried love?
A sigh for transient power?
All that a century left above,
Go, read it in an hour!
The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,
The hot shell, shattering in its fall,
The bayonet's rending wedge,-
Here scatter'd death; yet seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,
No altar, and they need it not
Who leave their children free!
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.
Look where the turbid raindrops stand
In many a chisel'd square,
The knightly crest, the shield, the brand
Of honour'd names were there;
Alas! for every tear is dried
Those blazon'd tablets knew,
Save when the icy marble's side
Drips with the evening dew.
Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,*
The empty urn of pride;
There stands the goblet and the sun,—
What need of more beside?
Where lives the memory of the dead?
Who made their tomb a toy?
Whose ashes press that nameless bed?
Go, ask the village boy!
Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls;
The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell
An exile's † date and doom;
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell,
They wreath the stranger's tomb.
And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,
Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;
*The tomb of the VASSALL family is marked by a freestone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,—Vas-Sol,—which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten.
†The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of Honfleur, in Normandy,
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