 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
173
A NIGHT JOURNEY.
Night her golden host is leading,
To the wood the crow is speeding,
Solemn lies the way, and lonely,
Field, and lane, and forest only!
Not a hut for miles appearing,
Ever toiling,—never nearing.
To the wood the crow is speeding,
Solemn lies the way, and lonely,
Field, and lane, and forest only!
Not a hut for miles appearing,
Ever toiling,—never nearing.
Thoughts on wild tradition dwelling,
Every step its legend telling;
Robbers lurking near the hedges,
Murders hid 'neath river-sedges!
Many sounds, but not one cheery,—
Even one's own foot creaks dreary.
Every step its legend telling;
Robbers lurking near the hedges,
Murders hid 'neath river-sedges!
Many sounds, but not one cheery,—
Even one's own foot creaks dreary.
Gipsies down in lonesome hollows,
Listening for each step that follows;—
Hist!—that bough, which snapt in parting.
Distant bark of lurcher starting,
Stays the foot with timid feeling,
Cautious o'er the dry leaves stealing!
Listening for each step that follows;—
Hist!—that bough, which snapt in parting.
Distant bark of lurcher starting,
Stays the foot with timid feeling,
Cautious o'er the dry leaves stealing!
178
Fast the Night her starry legions
Westward calls, to other regions!
See!—a hand, as of the Dawn,
Sudden gleams, then swift withdrawn,—
Like a maiden, shyly hiding,
Blushing, loving, half-confiding!
Westward calls, to other regions!
See!—a hand, as of the Dawn,
Sudden gleams, then swift withdrawn,—
Like a maiden, shyly hiding,
Blushing, loving, half-confiding!
Bed!—the curtain-silk adorning,
Blinding out the golden morning,—
Little recks your silken sleeper,
'Midst deep cares, and night-roads deeper,
How the light, which he despises,
Like a hymn of glory rises!
Blinding out the golden morning,—
Little recks your silken sleeper,
'Midst deep cares, and night-roads deeper,
How the light, which he despises,
Like a hymn of glory rises!
Last, we reach the quiet village,
View our cottage-field and tillage;
Though with limbs both faint and weary,
We forget the midnight dreary,
Cares and fears, how swift we lose them,
With our children at our bosom!
View our cottage-field and tillage;
Though with limbs both faint and weary,
We forget the midnight dreary,
Cares and fears, how swift we lose them,
With our children at our bosom!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |