IT is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
FROM yonder grove mark blue-eyed Eve proceed: First through the warm and deep and scented glens, Through the pale-glimmering privet-scented lane, And through those alders by the river-side; Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep Have hollowed out beneath their hawthorn shade. But ah! look yonder! see a misty tide
Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove, Enwrap the gay white mansion, sap its sides Until they melt away like chalk;
Now it comes down against our village-tower, Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears The clinging ivy from the battlements, Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone, (All one vast ocean,) and goes swelling on In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves. Walter Savage Landor.
With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault, she sails along Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full orbed glory yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths: Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night!
ART thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,— And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? P. B. Shelley.
How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high Her way pursuing among scatter'd clouds, Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds Hidden from view in dense obscurity! But look, and to the watchful eye
A brightening edge will indicate that soon We shall behold the struggling Moon
Break forth,-again to walk the clear blue sky.
TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now?
Weary wind, who wanderest Like the world's rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow?
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