THE SUNBEAM. MRS. HEMANS. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles, Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I look'd on the mountains-a vapour lay I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot- To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee, REFLECTIONS On seeing the Sun set for a period of three months-November, 1819. PARRY. BEHOLD yon glorious orb, whose feeble ray Mocks the proud glare of summer's livelier day! His noon-tide beam, shot upward through the sky, Scarce gilds the vault of Heaven's blue A fainter yet, and yet a fainter light; cheerless night! And is his glorious course for ever o'er? Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy In peerless splendor repossess the sky, Linger! sure thy glorious worth Was never felt until withdrawn ; And the lonely darkling earth, Sighs for the coming of the dawn. Ah! too soon the Christian dies, Yet that tranquil dying hour, Grander is than stronger day; Sweetest is its latest power, Surest is its faintest ray. Sun! go down, to rise again; Christian! depart, to enter bliss: Mine be its glad morrow's reign, May my last end be like his! TWILIGHT. MISS WILLIAMS. MEEK Twilight! haste to shroud the solar ray, And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves; Wakes the soft tear 'tis luxury to shed. TO THE MOON. MOON. H. K. WHITE. (Written in November.) SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee pale arbitress of night, I think of the future, still gazing the while, To answer the mournful appeal. Thy beams, which so bright through my casement appear, How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray J. TAYLOR. And sleep on the grave of a friend. Then still must I love thee mild Queen of the Night! Since feeling and fancy agree, WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of To make thee a source of unfailing delight, the Night, That secret, intelligent grace? Or why should I gaze with such pensive delight On thy fair, but insensible face? What gentle enchantment possesses thy Beyond the warm sunshine of day? Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile? Or grief's fond indulgence suspend? Yet, where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile, And loves thee-almost as a friend! The tear that looks bright, in the beam, as it flows, Unmoved dost thou ever behold;- Yet soothing thou art, and for ever I find, Whilst watching thy gentle retreat, I think of the years that for ever have filed;- Of joys that are vanished-and hopes that And of friendships that were-and are not! A friend and a solace to me! TO THE HARVEST MOON. H. K. WHITE. MOON of Harvest, herald mild Promptest the tripping dance, the exhila- Moon of Harvest, I do love thy way. Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, When boundless plenty meets his eye, How many a female eye will roam To see the load, The last dear load of harvest-home. Storms and tempests, floods and rains, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou shew'st thy face, Oh, Harvest Moon! 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes; His visionary views of joy! God of the winds! Oh, hear his humble prayer, MOONLIGHT SCENE IN ITALY. BYRON. THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains-Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering-upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 'Midst the chief relics of once mighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Wav'd dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone thro' the rents of ruin; from afar Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood And while the moon of harvest shines, thy A grove which springs thro' levell❜d battle blustering whirlwind spare. Sons of luxury, to you Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo: Press ye still the downy bed, ments, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;— But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection! While feverish dreams surround your head; While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan I will seek the woodland glade, The nightingale's enchanting tune, To thee, the modest Harvest Moon. halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, STARS. THE STARS. CROLY. YE stars! bright legions that, before all time, Camped on yon plain of sapphire, what shall tell Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him Who bade thro' heaven your golden chariots wheel? Yet who earthborn can see your hosts, nor feel Immortal impulses-Eternity? What wonder if the o'erwrought soul should reel With its own weight of thought, and the mild eye Your incense to the THRONE. The Hea vens shall burn! For all your pomps are dust, and shall to dust return. Yet look ye living intellects.-The trine Of waning planets, speaks it not decay? Does Schedir's staff of diamond wave no sign? Monarch of midnight, Sirius, shoots thy ray Undimm'd, when thrones sublunar pass away? Dreams!-yet if e'er was graved in vigil wan Your spell or gem or imaged alchemy, The sign when empires' hour-glass downwards ran, See fate within your tracks of sleepless glory Twas on that arch, graved on that brazen lie ? For ye behold the MIGHTIEST. From that steep What ages have ye worshipp'd round your King! talisman. THE EVENING STAR. ANON. Ye heard his trumpet sounded o'er the STAR of the Evening! How I love to mark sleep Of Earth ;-ye heard the morning-angels Upon the ocean-wave! How brightly dark, Your vineyard shall be shaken! From your Thou lovely star! methinks thy herald-ray urn Speaketh of rest beyond our hour of time; Censers of Heaven! no more shall glory And seemeth to invite the soul away rise, |