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THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

’Neath the light of the moony cresset,

Where the wild cloud rests his feet,
And the scented airs caress it
From the alpine orchis sweet :

And about the Sandalp lone
Voices airy breathe a tone,
Charming, with the sense of love,
Earth below and stars above.

Through the night, like a dragon from Pilate

Out of murky cave, let us cloudy sail

Over lake, over bowery vale,
As a chime of bells, at twilight

In the downy evening gale,
Passes swinging tremulously light;
Till we reach yon rocky pale

Of the mountain crowning all,
Slumber there by waterfall,
Lonely like a spectre's love,
Earth beneath and stars above.

THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

How lovely is the heaven of this night,
How deadly still its earth! The forest brute
Has crept into his cave, and laid himself
Where sleep has made him harmless like the lamb.
The horrid snake, his venom now forgot,
Is still and innocent as the honied flower
Under his head : and man, in whom are met
Leopard and snake, and all the gentleness
And beauty of the young lamb and the bud,
Has let his ghost out, put his thoughts aside,
And lent his senses unto death himself.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

LOVE HAWKING.

A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.
His shafts are light as beauty's sighs,
And bright as midnight's lightest eyes,

And round his starry way The swan-winged horses of the skies, With summer's music in their ma Curve their fair necks to Zephyr's reins,

And urge their graceful play.

A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.
The sparrows flutter round his wrist,
The feathery thieves that Venus kissed

And taught their morning song, The linnets seek the airy list, And swallows too, small pets of spring, Beat back the gale with swifter wing,

And dart and wheel along.

A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.
Now woe to every gnat that skips
To filch the fruit of lady's lips,

His felon blood is shed;
And woe to flies, whose airy ships
On beauty cast their anchoring bite,
And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,

Whose sting is slaughter-red.

JOHN STERLING.

1806—1844.

THE SPICE-TREE.

The spice-tree lives in the garden green,

Beside it the fountain flows,
And a fair bird sits the boughs between,

And sings his melodious woes.

No greener garden e'er was known

Within the bounds of an earthly king; No lovelier skies have ever shone

Than those that illumine its constant spring.

That coil-bound stem has branches three,

On each a thousand blossoms grow; And old as aught of time can be,

The root stands fast in the rock below.

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire

The fount that builds a silvery dome, And flakes of purple and ruby fire

Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.

The fair white bird of flaming crest,

And azure wings bedropped with gold, Ne'er has he known a pause of rest,

But sings the lament that he framed of old.

“O! Princess bright! how long the night

Since thou art sunk in the waters clear; How sadly they flow from the depths below, How long must I sing, and thou wilt not hear?

JOIN STERLING.

· The waters play, and the flowers are gay,

And the skies are sunny above;
I would that all would fade and fall,

And I too cease to mourn my love.

“O! many a year so wakeful and drear

I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee! But there comes no breath from the chamber of death,

While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree."

The skies grow dark, and they glare with red,

The tree shakes off its spicy bloom,
The waves of the fount in a black pool spread,

And in thunder sounds the garden's doom.

Down springs the bird with a long shrill cry,

Into the sable and angry flood,
And the face of the pool, as he falls from high,

Curdles in circling stains of blood.

But sudden again upswells the fount,

Higher and higher the waters flow,
In a glittering diamond arch they mount,

And round it the colours of morning glow.

Finer and finer the watery mound

Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil, And tones of music circle around,

And bear to the stars the fountain's tale.

And swift the eddying rainbow screen

Falls in dew on the grassy floor; Under the spice-tree the garden's queen

Sits by her lover, who wails no more.

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Oh, weep no more, sweet mother,

Oh, weep no more to-night; And only watch the sea, mother, Beneath the morning light.

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