The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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A NIGHT-SKETCH. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
A NIGHT-SKETCH.
Day sinks upon the wave—the first-born ray
Of earth's fair lamp is stealing o'er the hill;
It is a night of loveliness—the breeze,
Hush'd on the waters, slumbers like a babe
Upon its mother's breast; heaven seems to smile,
And draw its star-gemmed veil in mercy o'er
The deeds of darkness. 'Tis a night of peace,
And the grief-stricken spirit should be forth.
'Tis sweet to be alone on such a night:
The vanisht joys of youth and youthful days,
Borne upon memory's pinions, waken then
The long hushed note of gladness—hope's fair dreams
Whisper of joy, and they will cheat the soul,
And woo us to forgetfulness of self.
The dew is sparkling on the heather-bell,
Pure as the griefless tear that dims the eye
Of sleeping childhood, and the night-bird's song
Breaks on the holy loneliness of earth,
Like seraph's music o'er the slumbering dead!
The exiled wanderer, at an hour like this,
Loves the wild beauty of the mountain brow;
And he will comfort him that the same beam
Which meets his gaze, shines on the distant land,
The dwelling of his fathers.
Of earth's fair lamp is stealing o'er the hill;
It is a night of loveliness—the breeze,
Hush'd on the waters, slumbers like a babe
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And draw its star-gemmed veil in mercy o'er
The deeds of darkness. 'Tis a night of peace,
And the grief-stricken spirit should be forth.
'Tis sweet to be alone on such a night:
The vanisht joys of youth and youthful days,
Borne upon memory's pinions, waken then
The long hushed note of gladness—hope's fair dreams
Whisper of joy, and they will cheat the soul,
And woo us to forgetfulness of self.
The dew is sparkling on the heather-bell,
Pure as the griefless tear that dims the eye
Of sleeping childhood, and the night-bird's song
Breaks on the holy loneliness of earth,
Like seraph's music o'er the slumbering dead!
The exiled wanderer, at an hour like this,
Loves the wild beauty of the mountain brow;
And he will comfort him that the same beam
Which meets his gaze, shines on the distant land,
The dwelling of his fathers.
'Tis a night
When nought unhallowed dares to be abroad;
Guilt crouches in its den and shuns the view
Of the bright gladness which it cannot mar.
Pure in her loveliness the evening rose
In playful fondness wooes the moonbeam's glance,
Which seeks not to retire; as beauty's eye
Courts the dear smile it fain would seem to shun.
There is a goodly oak upon the hill,
Which many a winter's blast hath smote in vain,
The fathers of the forest once were there,
And twined their boughs in joyfulness around;
The tender ivy built herself a bower,
Among its branches.—
When nought unhallowed dares to be abroad;
Guilt crouches in its den and shuns the view
Of the bright gladness which it cannot mar.
Pure in her loveliness the evening rose
In playful fondness wooes the moonbeam's glance,
Which seeks not to retire; as beauty's eye
Courts the dear smile it fain would seem to shun.
There is a goodly oak upon the hill,
Which many a winter's blast hath smote in vain,
The fathers of the forest once were there,
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The tender ivy built herself a bower,
Among its branches.—
They are with the dust,
But still it lifts its head in aged strength,
And proudly glories in its solitude!
Fair is the moonbeam o'er that lonely tree
As when its brow was green in youthful pride;
So in the dawn of life, and o'er the grave
Of all that made life dear, shines on alike
The peace of heaven.
But still it lifts its head in aged strength,
And proudly glories in its solitude!
Fair is the moonbeam o'er that lonely tree
As when its brow was green in youthful pride;
So in the dawn of life, and o'er the grave
Of all that made life dear, shines on alike
The peace of heaven.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |