The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE SONG OF NIGHT.
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
94
THE SONG OF NIGHT.
“O night,
And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!”
Byron.
And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!”
Byron.
I come to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts!—for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
With all my gifts!—for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.
I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.
I come with peace:—I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
95
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.
Who calls me silent? I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;
But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb:
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove—
Like trumpets through the gloom.
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove—
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train;
Who calls me lonely?—Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead—
Phantoms of heart and brain!
Who calls me lonely?—Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead—
Phantoms of heart and brain!
96
Looks from departed eyes—
These are my lightnings!—fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
These are my lightnings!—fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
I, that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!—the arm'd, the strong—
The searcher of the soul!
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!—the arm'd, the strong—
The searcher of the soul!
I, that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest-birth
Of memory, thought, remorse:—Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night!
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest-birth
Of memory, thought, remorse:—Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |