Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray:

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his follower do,

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for Death:

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends; - such death be mine. JAMES MONTGOMERY.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος.

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls !

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY! And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn DIE down, O dismal day, and let me live; With colored clouds,-large, light, and fugitive,By upper winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life, a vapor dense Creeps round my window, till I cannot see The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold, Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies In rude amazement, fearful, and yet bold, While she performs her customed charities; I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare,

O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!

DAVID GRAY.

THE WINTER BEING OVER.

THE winter being over,

In order comes the spring,
Which doth green herbs discover,
And cause the birds to sing.
The night also expired,

Then comes the morning bright,
Which is so much desired

By all that love the light.
This may learn

Them that mourn,
To put their grief to flight:

The spring succeedeth winter,
And day must follow night.

He therefore that sustaineth
Affliction or distress
Which every member paineth,
And findeth no release,
Let such therefore despair not,
But on firm hope depend,
Whose griefs immortal are not,
And therefore must have end.
They that faint
With complaint

Therefore are to blame;
They add to their afflictions,
And amplify the same.

For if they could with patience
Awhile possess the mind,
By inward consolations
They might refreshing find,
To sweeten all their crosses
That little time they 'dure;
So might they gain by losses,
And sharp would sweet procure.
But if the mind
Be inclined

To unquietness,

That only may be called The worst of all distress.

He that is melancholy,
Detesting all delight,
His wits by sottish folly
Are ruinated quite.

Sad discontent and murmurs
To him are incident;
Were he possessed of honors,
He could not be content.
Sparks of joy

Fly away;
Floods of care arise;
And all delightful motion
In the conception dies.

WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND.

THE Time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill,

And dons a rich embroidery

Of sunlight poured on lake and hill.

No beast or bird in earth or sky,

Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, For Time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill. River and fountain, brook and rill, Bespangled o'er with livery gay Of silver droplets, wind their way. All in their new apparel vie, For Time hath laid his mantle by.

CHARLES OF ORLEANS.

RETURN OF SPRING.
[Translation.]

GOD shield ye, heralds of the spring,
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.

God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,
And he whom erst the gore

Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,
I welcome ye once more.

God shield ye, bright embroidered train
Of butterflies, that on the plain

Of each sweet herblet sip;

And ye, new swarms of bees, that go Where the pink flowers and yellow grow To kiss them with your lip.

LAUD the first spring daisies;

Chant aloud their praises;

Send the children up

To the high hill's top;

Tax not the strength of their young hands

To increase your lands.

Gather the primroses,

Make handfuls into posies;

Pluck the primroses; pluck the violets; Pluck the daisies,

Sing their praises;

Friendship with the flowers some noble thought

begets.

Come forth and gather these sweet elves,

(More witching are they than the fays of old,)

Come forth and gather them yourselves;

Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more than gold.

Come, come into the wood;

Pierce into the bowers

Of these gentle flowers,

Which, not in solitude

Dwell, but with each other keep society:
And with a simple piety,

Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good.

(And let these be jolly days,)

To die, in virgin worth;

Or to be strewn before the bride,

And the bridegroom, by her side.

Come forth on Sundays;

Come forth on Mondays;

Come forth on any day;

Children, come forth to play :

spring;

Better men, hereafter,

Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; Worship him in your sports; worship him ever;

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring :
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardor of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of care;

The panting herds repose:

Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,

SWEETLY BREATHING, VERNAL AIR

SWEETLY breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter's ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of the East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; Whose dishevelled tresses shed Pearls upon the violet bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth.
If he nip the early bud,
If he blast what's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our halls or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

THOMAS CAREW.