The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir :: :: University of Virginia Library

The orb of day is sinking,
The star of eve is winking,
The silent dews
Their balm diffuse,
The summer flowers are drinking;
The valley shades grow drearer,
As the sky above glows clearer;
Around all swim,
Perplexed and dim,
Yet the distant hills seem nearer—
O'er their tops the eye may mark
The very leaves, distinct and dark.

II

Now eastern skies are lightening,
Wood, mead, and mount are brightening,
Sink in the blaze
The stellar rays,
The clouds of heaven are whitening;

325

Now the curfew-bell is ringing,
Now the birds forsake their singing,
The beetle fly
Hums dully by,
And the bat his flight is winging;
While the glowing, glorious moon,
Gives to night the smile of noon.

III

O! then in churchyards hoary,
With many a mournful story,
'Tis sweet to stray,
'Mid tombstones grey,
And muse on earthly glory:
Thoughts, deeds, and days departed,
Up from the past are started,
Time's noon and night,
Its bloom and blight,
Hopes crown'd with bliss, or thwarted;
Halcyon peace or demon strife,
Sweetening or disturbing life.

IV

Then wake the dreams of childhood,
Its turbulent or mild mood—
The gather'd shells,
The foxglove bells,
The bird-nest in the wild wood;

326

The corn fields greenly springing;
The twilight blackbird singing
Sweetly, unseen,
From chestnut green,
Till all the air is ringing;
Restless swallows twittering by,
And the gorgeous sunset sky.

V

Then while the moon is glancing,
Through murmuring foliage dancing,
Wild fancy strays
Amid the maze
Of olden times entrancing:
She scans each strange tradition
Of dim-eyed Superstition—
The monk in hood,
With book and rood,
And nun in cell'd contrition;
Horsemen winding through the dale,
Morions dark, and shining mail.

VI

Ah! where are they that knew us,
That then spake kindly to us?
Why thus should they
In evil day
So frigidly eschew us?

327

We call them—they appear not,
They listen not, they hear not;
Their course is run,
Their day is done,
They hope not, and they fear not:
Past for them are heat and cold,
Death hath penn'd them in his fold!

VII

Above their bones unknowing,
Wild flowers and weeds are growing;
By moon or sun
Is nothing done
To them a thought bestowing:
In dark repose they wither,
Like weeds blown hither—thither—
Alone, alone,
The last Trump's tone
Shall call them up together.
Thou shalt hear it, Silence drear!
Grave oblivious, thou shalt hear!