LXXV.

REST.

THE boat is hauled upon the hardening sand,
The mist is gathering o'er the dim morass,
The kine are couching on the daisied grass,
And in their stalls the champing horses stand.
No plash of brine along the darkling strand,

No light winds play the reed-pipes as they pass;
The moonlit deep is glittering like glass,
And all things yield to stilly Night's command.

O balmy hours of silver sheen and dew!

Shall nought belie you save this labouring breast-The soul alone to Nature be untrue,

And still of what she hath not go in quest? Just now ye spake. Ah, speak those words anew, 'Wait, weary heart; soon thou shalt also rest.'

LXXVI.

FOUNTAINS ABBEY.

ABBEY! for ever smiling pensively,

How like a thing of Nature dost thou rise Amid her loveliest works! as if the skies, Clouded with grief, were arched thy roof to be, And the tall trees were copied all from thee ! Mourning thy fortunes-while the waters dim Flow like the memory of thy evening hymn, Beautiful in their sorrowing sympathy;

As if they with a weeping sister wept,

Winds name thy name! But thou, though sad, art calm,

And Time with thee his plighted troth hath kept;

For harebells deck thy brow, and, at thy feet, Where sleep the proud, the bee and redbreast meet, Mixing thy sighs with Nature's lonely psalm.

LXXVII.

SILENCE.

HUSH-hush! it is the charm of nothingness, —
A sweet estate wherein there is no sweet;
A music true, though no vibrations beat;
A passive mistress, cold and passionless-
Bestowing not, yet having power to bless,
Until, in holy love, we kiss her feet.

O joy wherein no soul a friend may greet,
O Thou that giv'st no comfort in distress,-
Why do we love thee, Silence? Art thou then
The mystic, ghostly Mother of mankind,

From forth whose womb we sprang without a throe?

To Thee resort for rest and peace all men ;
In Thy embrace serene, pure joy they find,-
Art Thou the very Heaven whereto we go?

LXXVIII.

A SUNSET THOUGHT.

THE sun is burning with intensest light
Behind yon grove; and in the golden glow
Of unconsuming Fire, it doth show

Like to the Bush, in which to Moses' sight
The Lord appeared! and O, am I not right
In thinking that he reappears e'en now
To me, in the old Glory, and I bow

My head, in wonder hush'd, before His might!

Yea! this whole world so vast, to Faith's clear eye,
Is but that burning Bush full of His Power,
His Light, and Glory; not consumed thereby,
But made transparent: till in each least flower,
Yea! in each smallest leaf, she can descry
His Spirit shining through it visibly!

LXXIX.

LONDON, AFTER MIDNIGHT.

SILENCE broods o'er the mighty Babylon;
And Darkness, his twin brother, with him keeps
His solemn watch; the wearied city sleeps,
And Solitude, strange contrast! muses on
The fate of man, there, whence the crowd anon
Will scare her with life's tumult! The great deeps
Of human Thought are stirless, yet there creeps,
As 'twere, a far-off hum, scarce heard, then gone,
On the still air; 'tis the great Heart doth move
And beat at intervals, soon from its sleep

To start refreshed. Oh Thou, who rul'st above,
Be with it in its dreams, and let it keep,

Awake, the spirit of pure peace and love,

Which Thou breath'st through it now, so still and deep!