II.
NIGHT-SCENES ON NOVEMBER 17.
November's night is harsh and cold;
Like banners seem the clouds up-roll'd
Sable and dusk, in starless heaven,
And, here and there, by night-gales driven;
Fiercely and fast the loud-toned rain
Rattles against the window-pane;
But neither wet nor winter's chill
The mingled rush becalm of myriads coming still:—
Through dusky lane, and street, or lighted square
London is moved, and motion ev'rywhere!
MIDNIGHT.
But at last, there seems a lull
Making night more beautiful.
Chariot, steed, and rapid car
With fainter cadence roll afar;
Till a deeper hush is come,
And the wide and wakeful hum
Ebbs and falls, and dies away
Like a dream-tone's melting play.
Through their rent and riven shrouds
Planets beam from yonder clouds;
Pallid stars patrol the sky,
And arrest some musing eye,
While yon weak and wat'ry moon,
Like a soft and silver noon
On the turret gleams awhile
With a pale and placid smile.
Soon o'er the varied City's vast extent
A deep'ning stillness from the night is sent;
And the calmer few who can
Master all the scenes of man,
Keeping down the pulse of life
When it throbs in storm or strife,—
Feel the balm of slumber now
Brooding over cheek and brow;
Those that work, and they who weep,
Woo the mercy of mild sleep;
And in soft innocence of sacred rest
The babe lies pillow'd on maternal breast.
