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as the French say- which fill the columns
From Blackwood's Magazine.
SUNRISE of too many of our contemporaries. The engravings are somewhat rough, and bere
SUNRISE ! Sunrise ! See ! and there badly drawn; but the spirit of Into the field of the dawn, them is always good and honest, a feeling Where the mountain's clear sharp line is of love for the sufferers, and deep
drawn, thy for the Russian people. The Russian The light mounts steadily. mind is naturally inclined to melancholy
While below in many a chasm deep, and despondency, and we find also sigo's
The mists of night still lingering creep, of that regrettable national characteristic.
And the lower slopes are half asleep, A Russian peasant scratching his ear,
And dimly dreaming,
And at last, look ! look! how startlingly after the invariable habit of his kind when
Into the world of the open sky, embarrassed, stands before a post on Where the light before was so pale and which is written: “If you go to the right
tender, you'll lose your horse; if you go to the And earth and air were still and aware left you'll lose yourself.” The peasant
With a silent expectation, says, "Fog everywhere; I really don't
Sails the sudden Sun know whether I am to go to the right or
With its banners of clouds above it stream. to the left.” The corresponding picture
ing, to this cartoon explains it: right and left
Golden and purple, and rose and grey and
dun, are seen two heads of a Slavian)ophile
Flooding the world with its splendor, and a Europophile; each calls upon the
And gladdening all creation. peasant to follow him, but the peasant, And Day-Day-Day, has begun. sitting at the foot of a tree, drinks his vodka: “I will lie down and sleep here.” There's a rustle through leagues of forest – We do not believe that the Russian peo
the ocean stirs, ple will go to sleep, wavering between
Quivering with joy and light. the two impulses which are endeavoring The last star swoons and dies — only the firs,
And the sombre cedars, and cypresses to lead it towards two totally different
tall, ideals. The real Russian is original
Solemn, dark, and funereal, enough and sensible enough to be able to Remember the vanished night. find out the way most likely to suit him Day and life return — and the earth rejoices, best. Far from despairing, we think he The air is alive with a murmur of busy voices; is preparing for a new and rapid move- There's the low of a myriad herds, ment forward. Self-conscious public opin. Feeding on endless meadows, – ion is a waking on her miserable bed: “I There's the joy of a myriad birds, have slept long ... and I am so stupid
Darting through leafy shadows, still. ... What strange fancies have
There's the quiver of endless leaves,
That gleam at the day's returning, passed through my head! Is it a dream
And the breath of a world of flowers still ?” Enormous packages with the
goes up words:"Public Questions” are drawn by
Like incense unto the morning, a tortoise and a lobster. This is to show
As spreading their petals, they shake how public business and reform go on at
from each cup, the present time. When embezzlements
The dews that its light imprison, of public money and frauds are discovered And the life of a myriad insect-wings every day, the following cartoon is appro
In the wet grass buzz and dizzen.
The spider from twig to twig has swung priate: A wretched, hungry-looking beg. bar steals a loaf - it is neblagovidnoe (an
His glimmering wheel of silken
tbread, untranslatable word, something like not
And the gossamer over the grasses hung respectable). A well-dressed gentleman,
His awning diamonded. with a heavy gold chain, fills his pocket The wild geese drop from the thin clear height, with public or government money — it is Where all night long they have held their flight, blagoirdnoe (respectable). All the car.
And settle on lake and mere; toons are inspired by that instinctive
Up springs the lark, and, lost in the misanthropy so inherent in the Russian
Carols his rapture genius, but as they are all the true expres
out of sight
Thrilling the atinosphere. sions of the present condition of the peo
A thousand sails on the heaving sea, ple, let us hope the paper will do good.
By a sudden hue of rose are struck, The only thing to be wished for is greater
In a thousand cities shaft and spire, finish in the engraving and more care in Are quivering pointed with golden the draughtsmanship; as to the letter
fire, press, it leaves nothing to be desired.
From a thousand homes into the sky,
The thin grey column of rising smoke, And shake the earth as they rouse.
From seething Sumatra and tropic Madagascar,
basks and souses
tic, The torrents overflowing.
As on thy glory comes, – There's a ring of wagons on valley From the orient chambers of thy early rising, and hill,
O'er Europe's plains and homes, From a thousand farms with clarion From the Himalayas on to the Alps, and onshrill,
ward The strutting cock is crowing.
To the Rocky Mountains, that rise There is neighing and barking, and bleating O'er the fair Pacific, peak to peak out-calling, and lowing,
Flushed as the glad news flies,
thee, For the throbbing world is alive again,
And the stir and the strife and the strain And its pulse is beating in every vein Of living begins, and the world that was sleepWith the strength of a mighty stirring;
ing and dreaming Night with its shadows of death is done. Rouses and quivers again. The great new wondrous day has begun, And mountains and valleys, and seas and Let trumpet and pipe and voice and song, strands,
Echo unto the skies !
Let chorus and hymn thy praise prolong, Startled, arouse and clap their hands,
O glorious Sun! that comest again
With thy ever-new surprise.
O splendor of earth and life that give All the world is alive and waking
Joy and beauty to all that live
And daily the world renews, — To hail the great new day that is breaking. O fountain of light and color that flings Sharp through the Western forest's tangled O'er the darkest and dullest of earthly
things The hunter's rifle cracks,
Thy glad transfiguring hues, – Where the black bear prowls, and the poising
O glory of earth and sea and sky,
Life of a myriad worlds on high,
Soul of the universe, light of its eye,
Who shall his voice refuse,
To swell the chorus that evermore
Is shouted from fiashing peaks that dare On its topmost crest for a full long century, The cold thin depths of the breathless air quivers
Thy earliest glance to see,
To the crawling foam that fringes the Far in the south, through thick Brazilian tan
From the tremulous forest that uplifts And the boa coiled on its branches droops and
Its listening tops, while the morning dangles,
breeze And the Paradise-bird like a living flash of With its news from afar with a whisper splendor
sifts, Through the burning summer streams.
And thy glorious coming promises Over the Western prairies herds of buffaloes To the humblest of weeds and grasses low, Crowded and thundering rush,
Where the clear cool stream with a mur. The lion and tiger on sandy African deserts
murous flow, That all night long have ranged for Is talking and running to catch a sight
Of thy first sweet gleam of morning light, Satiate now at the coming of day,
To tell unto all below. Are stealing to cave and bush, The ostrich is whirring, half running, half fly. All, all are joining with one glad tone, ing,
All, all are chanting their song as one, On sultry Australian plains,
From the bass of the thunderous avalanche The hippopotamus lumbers along to the river
And the cataract's dizzy booming; Crashing among the canes,
To the whisper fine of the quivering breeze The soft-eyed spotted giraffe his tall neck That hurries through myriad leagues of stretches
trees, The low wet branches to browse,
And the insects' infinite humming. The ponderous elephants lift their trunks and The Sun! The Sun! The Sun – The trumpet
The King of the World is coming! | In the dark grass a myriad grilli ring Fling forth your banners — shout and sing, Their chimes of tiny bells. Until the whole wide universe ring From rugged mountain-steeps that dark and With a vast and joyous welcoming,
Chant to the night their praises as they go
To join the torrent hurrying hoarse below
O'er its grey boulders tossed.
The soft wind whispering sings its mountain She is coming - she soon will come;
song Slowly is paling the dying light, As slow it drives the low white clouds along, Twilight has lost its bloom,
Or murmurs through the black platoons of And a serious hush steals silently
pines, Over the shadowy Earth,
Whose serried ranks together push While faint in the delicate air on high Their tall uplifted spears, and rush The first new star has birth.
Up the sheer sides of Alps and Apennines,
Or tremulous breathes o'er many a peaceful Against the twilight, their shoulders bare,
slope The mountains are turning as to sleep ;
Of gracious Italy, And one by one from their chambers deep, Where in festoons the swaying vineyards droop, Where from the peering search they hid
And the grey olives up the hillsides troop, Of the day's rude gaze and opened lid,
A ghostly company,
Pallid and faint, as they had only known
The moon for friend, and in its light had With his cymbals clashing, his bright spears
grown. flashing, His tumult and rout, his Bacchanal's shout, A dream the vales and hills and meadows His gladness and madness, and laughter and
Earth sleeping turns and sighs, - the ocean His banners and thyrsi and coronals waving;
pants, And his chorus and dances and singing are And weary, Alings itself upon the breast done,
Of the broad beach, scarce knowing what it The noisy array has hurried away
wants, And vanished below the horizon's rim Stirred by a strange unrest; Into worlds beyond, and his gonfalons gay The sky's deep dome is filled with mysteries Of sunset glories are dim and grey,
dim And have all forgotten him,
And tremulous throbs, the swift and wheelFor night, with its shadowy silent presence,
ing spheres Is stealing on,
With music thrill, too fine for human ears, And under its spell so calm and serious And Nature, with its myriad voices, chants The wondering world stands still,
To thee its faint night hymn.
Nor Nature only, - every living thing
rude, They are waiting the coming of the moon, Touched by thy sweet and gentle visiting, The Regent of the Night.
Grows peaceful and subdued. Nor long they await – for look, serene In the dark woods the hidden nightingale, Above the hills revealed,
With rapturous trills, and sudden passionLarge and majestic in her mien,
throbs, Into the clear expectant sky
And liquid bursts, and low recurrent sobs, She lifts her gleaming shield —
Repeats his lovelor tale. And with a pensive peaceful grace
The plaintive cry of the sad whipporwill Takes queenlike there her silent place, Is heard along the hill. And looks o'er all the enchanted world The leathern bat wheels round in noiseless With calm pathetic face.
flight, All own her gentle influence,
Across the glimmering and uncertain light,So tender, so intense ;
And mournfully afar the feathery owl, And over all a breath of prayer
Hoots in the ear of night. Floats like a feeling through the air, From many a pond, where on its green-paved And soothes the soul and sense.
Of tesselated leaves the lily sleeps, Along the river's course the slow mists cling, While the pale willow drooping o'er it As murmuring on it swells.
His guttural bass the frog sings o'er and o'er. The nightingale that knows to sing
Love's passion and Love's pain, reting
And sorrow wakes - and in despair There comes a bleating from the folded
Looks up, O night, to thee flock,
And wails, “Oh where are they, oh A tinkle of faint bells,
where, From the dim fields the voice of country
Whom Death hath torn from me ? folk, Talking and laughing, swells;
Speak — speak, 0 night -0 heaven, de
clare And now and then the bay
From thine infinity." Of some enchanted watch-dog far away,
And thou — what answerest thou, O night, That feels night's influence, and cannot say What stirs him so,
O boundless tremulous air, Is heard lamenting,
O moon, O stars, to that wild cry, - or some wakened cock
To that impassioned prayer ? Crows out a drowsy crow.
Nothing ! In calm serenity, But all these sounds and voices seem
Unmoved thou standest there, To melt away into the tender dream
Deaf - silent - cold and pitiless That haunts the air,
To all we have to bear. And soothe the silence which were else too
No! no! the tears of passion past, deep
Thou givest us thy boon at last. For heart to bear.
“Come to me and weep;' All sleep! The tired world sleeps !
Thou givest thy beloved sleep;
Thou summonest again the form
That death hath snatched away,
The glad lost voice, the body warm,
The animate dear clay, The dog hunts in his dream alone,
The dream at least of all that was The woodman wields no more his stroke,
Denied to us by day.
O Night of grand repose !
O silent serious Night !
Beside thy pathos infinite No longer hungers, racked with pains,
How vain are Daylight's shows! But roams along Elysian plains
Thine is the grand dim realm of dream, And wears a monarch's crown,
Thine the mysterious power whose spell A myriad mortals lay their head
Leads Fancy on beyond the extreme Upon oblivion's poppied bed,
Of this world's possible.
Thine the soft touch that charms the wako And all day's busy toils and cares,
ing sense, And all the hard world's strain and stress, And woos the troubled soul to confidence. And all its tortuous snarls and snares
To thee our secret woes we tell,
To thee our inmost being bare,
With thee our deepest feelings share, They sleep — they rest.
Mother divine, ineffable. But Love awakes: O silent moon,
Our hopes, our loves, that in the pride
Of busy daylight are repressed
Our doubts, remorses, hidden fears,
That gnaw within the breast;
To thee, great mother, we confide
And on thy bosom shed our tears,
As thy great arms thou openest wide They lingering talk, or pausing.dream,
To give us rest.
Thou whisperest beneath thy breath
Of that vast dim infinity,
Where broods the silent shadow-
" As I from out the body steal Thou seest as they wander on,
For few brief hours the soul away, His clasping arm around her thrown,
My passing dream-world to reveal; She trembling in his fond caress,
So my dark Brother, when your eyes And all the air is still to hear,
He in his endless sleep shall close,
Shall bear you — far beyond the woes
Of this short life
- to the repose
Of an eternal Paradise.”
W. W. S.
Fifth Series, Volume XXXVII.
No. 1981. - June 10, 1882.
CONTENTS. I. JONATHAN SWIFT, .
Temple Bar, VII. ICE-MAKING IN INDIA,
Chambers' Journal, VIII. HEBREW TRANSLATIONS,
576 609 614 627 634 638 639 640
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