Far-far, within the orbless blue,
A tiny lustre twinkles through,
With distant and unsteady light,
To catch the eye, then mock the sight;
Till-as the shades of Darkness frown,
And throw their viewless curtains down,
very veil that mantles earth,
Awakens thee to brighter birth,
And bids thee glow with purer ray,
A lily on the tomb of Day!
With outlines palpable, and clear, And, 'mid the lowering darkness drear, Above the forest, rise sublime The gothic towers of olden time; Through lattices, unframed, looks forth The calm, pure azure of the North, Unbroken, save where, dark and down, The ivy tendrils hang, and frown; And Time, with mimic finger, weaves A natural lattice-work of leaves. What, marvel, then, that trembling Fear, In many a grot, and cavern here, Should hold her solitary reign,
To scare the natives of the plain,
And people every lonesome glade,
With many a mute, and wandering shade. Lo! in the convent's dewy cell,
What time awoke the vesper bell,
The homeward-stalking peasant hears,
Beneath the moonlight of the spheres,
Strange music on the breezes swim,
A low-a wild-a wailing hymn,
Soaring, and sinking, like the breeze
Among December's leafless trees;
Nor backward is his mind to dream,
In passing, that strange faces gleam
From every frowning cranny there-
As throbs his heart, and stirs his hair,
With quicken'd step he hastens on,
For well he knows, in ages gone,
When sackcloth-vested abbots sway'd,
And Rome was mighty and obey'd,
That there unholy deeds were done,
Perceived by few, and told by none,
And oft the restless spirits sweep,
When storms are dark, and night is deep,
Amid the gothic aisles, where rest,
In charnel cell, their bones unblest.
The blue horizon circles round
This silent spot of fairy ground;
So hush'd, that even my very breath
Intrudes upon the still of death!
No trace of mind or man is here,
The sight to win, the heart to cheer;
Like him, who, on Fernandez, sate,
Lamenting o'er his lonely fate,-
While, in the hush of winds, the roar
Of Ocean thundering on the shore
Was heard, the only living sound,
To break the deep, and dull profound,—
So here I rest; no tempests roll
Above my head, or in my soul,
A musing heart, and watchful eye,
Conversing with the earth, and sky.
FROM cloudless skies, the sun o'erhung
With crimson fire the western main ; In shadows deep and verdure young, The woods and fields smiled back again;
It was a luxury to breathe
The very air, so pure and clear;
Vales, like a map, were spread beneath, And far withdrawing hills seem'd near.
Afar from paths of men I stray'd,
With raptured eye and glowing heart ; And felt, that every field and glade
Could fresh delight and love impart ;
The running stream, with flowers o'erhung;
The trees that seem'd to woo the air ;
The bees that humm'd, the birds that sung,—
'Twas too much for the mind to bear!
The city's noise was left behind,
Remote its azure spires appear'd ;
And human strife, thus brought to mind,
The rural quiet more endear'd.
Beside the stream, I threw me down
Amid the flowers all fresh and fair,
And, shooting from its banks of brown,
A wild rose spread its boughs in air;
Its leaves so beautifully green,
Its cups so delicate in hue,
Awaken'd thoughts of many a scene,
Far banish'd from my vacant view ;
Thoughts, that have long been veil'd in sleep; Hopes, that allured but to depart;
And recollections buried deep
Within the shut and silent heart.
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