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“NIGHT” AND “MORNING.”
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[The title of “Night” and “Morning” is given to two excellent paintings by Sir Edwin Landseer. Few of the fine works, even of this our modern master, demand greater attention. The subject is simple in both pictures. In the first we perceive a couple of deer contending for the mastery, on an elevated piece of moorland adjoining a lake; the moon has risen above the distant hills which form the horizon. “Morning” shows to us the result of the combat—the animals are dead.]
Afar o'er the mountains the mists are unroll'd,
And the wings of the Morn scatter crimson and gold;
The voice of the torrent is heard on its way
Proclaiming the power and the glory of day;
While each object the soul with magnificence fills,
And the heart seems to echo the joy of the hills.
What cry comes so swift from the solitude vast?
What feet sweep the glen like the rush of the blast?
And the wings of the Morn scatter crimson and gold;
The voice of the torrent is heard on its way
Proclaiming the power and the glory of day;
While each object the soul with magnificence fills,
And the heart seems to echo the joy of the hills.
What cry comes so swift from the solitude vast?
What feet sweep the glen like the rush of the blast?
'Tis the stag of the desert—the monarch whose throne
Is girt with a grandeur to cities unknown;
He was up with the dawn, over heather and fen—
Over corrie and cairn—over moorland and glen;
From bold Ben-y-chatt to Loch Dirie he flew,
Nor stayed he his hoof at Glenbruar nor Chroo;
With the foam-speed of passion he bated no breath,
But away—still away—to the combat of death!
Is girt with a grandeur to cities unknown;
He was up with the dawn, over heather and fen—
Over corrie and cairn—over moorland and glen;
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Nor stayed he his hoof at Glenbruar nor Chroo;
With the foam-speed of passion he bated no breath,
But away—still away—to the combat of death!
Where shrieks the lone eagle, where skulks the lean fox,
And the wolf holds her watch from her home mid the rocks;
Where the spray of the torrent is hung like a shroud,
And the pine soars aloft through the rack of the cloud;
Still onward he rushes, still bounds at a pass,
Each rugged and stern and precipitous mass;
Up, upward, he toils, by no danger deterr'd,
'Till his rival appears in the midst of the herd!
And the wolf holds her watch from her home mid the rocks;
Where the spray of the torrent is hung like a shroud,
And the pine soars aloft through the rack of the cloud;
Still onward he rushes, still bounds at a pass,
Each rugged and stern and precipitous mass;
Up, upward, he toils, by no danger deterr'd,
'Till his rival appears in the midst of the herd!
One glance—and together they spring o'er the path—
One moment, each eye-ball is gleaming with wrath;
Now butting, now goring—their haunches they bow;
Now tossing in fury, clash antler and brow;
'Till the fire of their passion falls faint by degrees,
And panting and foaming they sink to their knees;
Still horn linked in horn, still contending with fate,
While the moonlight looks down on their fury and hate!
One moment, each eye-ball is gleaming with wrath;
Now butting, now goring—their haunches they bow;
Now tossing in fury, clash antler and brow;
'Till the fire of their passion falls faint by degrees,
And panting and foaming they sink to their knees;
Still horn linked in horn, still contending with fate,
While the moonlight looks down on their fury and hate!
But the moonlight hath gone; and the Morning hath thrown
Over mountain and river a spell of her own:—
A freshness that sparkles with heavenly light,
A beauty that glorifies hollow and height:
The gold of the summits is tinctured with rose,
And the air with a gladness and holiness glows;
Above—springs enchantment in every breath,
Below—there's the rock—and the vulture—and death.
Over mountain and river a spell of her own:—
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A beauty that glorifies hollow and height:
The gold of the summits is tinctured with rose,
And the air with a gladness and holiness glows;
Above—springs enchantment in every breath,
Below—there's the rock—and the vulture—and death.
Who recks what that Night of contention hath seen?
Who recks what the rage of the rivals hath been?
As, hour after hour, gash'd and gory they stood,
From the fetlock to neck plash'd with foam and with blood,
With antlers so lock'd, that no strength could unclose
The clasp that in life they had fasten'd as foes!
Now the fox to his banquet in silence may prowl,
And the wild eagle shriek to the wolf's hungry howl.
Who recks what the rage of the rivals hath been?
As, hour after hour, gash'd and gory they stood,
From the fetlock to neck plash'd with foam and with blood,
With antlers so lock'd, that no strength could unclose
The clasp that in life they had fasten'd as foes!
Now the fox to his banquet in silence may prowl,
And the wild eagle shriek to the wolf's hungry howl.
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