The weary sun hath made a golden set, And by the bright track of his golden car, Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. Now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save when silence yields Shaks. Richard III. Tunes sweetest his love-labour'd song; now reigns The midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, 'Tis now the very witching time of night; When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Night with her sullen wings to double shade The desert; fowls in their clay nests were couch'd; Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot And now wild beasts came forth the woods to roam. Look how the floor of heaven Quiet night, that brings Massinger. Now glow'd the firmament With livid sapphires: Hesperus, that led Now came still evening on, and twilight grey The sun was sunk, and after him the star Milton's Paradise Regained. The day is fled, and dismal night descends, Casting her sable arms around the world, And folding all within her sable grasp. Hopkins's Pyrrhu Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Parnell's Hermit. How is night's sable mantle labour'd o'er, This gorgeous arch, with golden worlds enlarg'd! Young's Night Thoughts. This sacred shade and solitude, what is it? "Tis the felt presence of the deity. Few are the faults we flatter when alone, Vice sinks in her allurements, is ungilt, And looks, like other objects, black by night. By night an atheist half-believes a God. Young's Night Thoughts. Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, fond Of feather'd fopperies, the sun adore : Darkness has more divinity for me; The sun was set; the night came on apace, And falling dews bewet around the place; The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings. Gay's Shepherd's Week As yet 't is midnight deep. The weary clouds, Thomson's Seasons In sable pomp, with all her starry train, The night resum'd her throne. Precipitate and heavy o'er the world; At once extinguishing the sun. Glover. Mallett's Mustapha. O, treach'rous night! It strikes thought inward; it drives back the soul The night look'd black, and boding darkness fell Young's Night Thoughts. How like a widow in her weeds, the night, Amid her glimmering tapers, silent sits! How sorrowful, how desolate, she weeps Perpetual dews, and saddens nature's scene. Young's Night Thoughts. The trembling stars See crimes gigantic, stalking through the gloom With front erect, that hide their head by day, And making night still darker by their deeds. Slumbering in covert, till the shades descend, Rapine and murder, link'd, now prowl for prey. Young's Night Thoughts. The sun went down in clouds, and seem'd to mourn The sad necessity of his return; The hollow wind, and melancholy rain, Or did, or was imagin'd to, complain: The tapers cast an inauspicious light; Stars there were none, and doubly dark the night. Young's Force of Religion. Now black, and deep the night begins to fall, A shade immense. Sunk in the quenching gloom, Magnificent and vast, are heaven and earth. Order confounded lies; all beauty void; Distinction lost; and gay variety One universal blot: such the power Of light, to kindle and create the whole. Thou lend'st thy ready veil to ev'ry treason, How those fall'n leaves do rustle on the path, The distant river, too, bears to mine car No was the noon of night; and all was still, On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs Southey How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air, No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene heaven: In full-orh'd glory yonder moon divine Beneath her steady ray The desert circle spreads, Like the round ocean, gird'ed with the sky Thomson's Seasons. Southey's Thalava Behold the world Rests, and her tir'd inhabitants have paus'd nurse, Poor victim! smiles. - Silence and deep repose Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved The night comes calmly forth, Another day is added to the map Bowring. Of buried ages. Lo! the beauteous moon, Beneath her loveliness, creation looks; Far gleaming hills, and light in-weaving streams, And sleeping boughs with dewy lustre clothed, And green-hair'd valleys,—all in glory dress'd, Make up the pageantries of night. Robert Montgomery. "Tis night, the spectred hour is nigh; Pensive I hear the moaning blast Passing with sad sepulchral sigh, My lyre that hangs neglected by, How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Wnich seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night! Just one look before I sleep, Moore. Which the gentle night-hour brings Вуголь Miss Landon's Poems. J. Montgomery, Night is a lively masquerade of day. Will meet, though in silence, like forbidden lovers. Bailey's Festus. Night hath made many bards, she is so lovely. Bailey's Festus. How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear, Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon Oh, Night! most beautiful, most rare! Sleep chains the earth; the bright stars glide on high, Filling with one effulgent smile the sky; The last red gold had melted from the sky, The jewell'd mantle round her regal form; While the invisible fingers of the breeze Shook the young blossoms lightly from the trees. Phabe Carey. O nightingale, that on yon blooming spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart doth fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; oh! if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh, As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the muse or love call the 's mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. Milton The nightingale, if she should sing by day, Milton's Il Penseroso. Thus perch'd all night alone in shady groves, But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierc'd With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate, Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue, Look round Among the titled great ones of the world; Some favourite mistress, or ambitious minister, villain, Vain-glorious man, when fluttering wind does blow To its now proud possessors ? In his light wings, is lifted up to sky; Frances's Eugenia Ev'n to the dullest peasant standing by, Who fasten'd still on him a wondering eye, He seem'd the master spirit of the land. Joanna Bailhe There were twelve peers Spenser's Fairy Queen. Like Charlemagne's—and all such peers in look Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a duke? 1 Swift. Вутов |