THE RUIN. Here, by the restless bed of pain Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, The breathless influence, shed Through the dim dwelling, from the room The seat left void, the missing face, Till from the narrowing household chain Is there not cause, then cause for thought, Fix'd eye and lingering tread, Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Even lowliest hearts have bled? Where, in its ever-haunting thirst For draughts of purer day, Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst Holy to human nature seems The long-forsaken spot; To deep affections, tender dreams, 109 Therefore in silent reverence here, Hearth of the dead! I stand, THE MINSTER. "A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined BYRON. SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell, Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. Leave me to linger silently awhile! -Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb, Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom: Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high ; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry :Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. THE MINSTER. 111 But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head: And thou, still battling with the tempest's forceThou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair? No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past, no trace! -Doth not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place By every grief hath made its might confest! -Oh! that within my heart I could but keep Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep THE SONG OF NIGHT.' "O night, And storm and darkness! ye åre wondrous strong, I COME to thee, O Earth! BYRON. With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, I come with every star; Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Mirrors of worlds afar. I come with peace:—I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head. On my own heart I lay The weary babe; and sealing with a breath 1 The shadowing lids to play. Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented under the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms. THE SONG OF NIGHT. I come with mightier things! Who calls me silent? I have many tones- I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, But in the human breast 113 A thousand still small voices I awake, I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush'd affections, which, though long o'er-borne, Make their tones heard at last. I bring them from the tomb: O'er the sad couch of late repentant love I come with all my train; Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread, Looks from departed eyes These are my lightnings!-fill'd with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies. |