VOICES OF THE NIGHT. PRELUDE. Πότνια, πότνια νύξ, ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνων βροτῶν, ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπό τε συμφορᾶς PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, Or where the denser grove receives Beneath some patriarchal tree EURIPIDES. Old legends of the monkish page, And chronicles of Eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, I feel the freshness of the streams, Water the green land of dreams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild They were my playmates when a child, A slumberous sound, a sound that brings Still they looked at me and smiled, The feelings of a dream, As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Dreams that the soul of youth engage As if I were a boy; Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος. And, where the sunshine darted through, I HEARD the trailing garments of the Spread a vapor soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay! Thou art no more a child! "The land of Song within thee lies, Its clouds are angels' wings. 'Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, "There is a forest where the din "Athwart the swinging branches cast, We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, Be these henceforth thy theme." I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear Peace Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; |