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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,


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The thin grey column of rising smoke, And shake the earth as they rouse.
Is stealing silently.

From seething Sumatra and tropic Madagascar,
The jar of the world of men begins, From Borneo's groves of spice,
The reaper and sower afield are going, To the glacial fields where the white bear
The busy factory clacks and dins,

basks and souses
The mill-wheel over its sluices whirls, And blunders along the ice, -
Shattered in spray of diamond and From the sultry Indian Sea to the cold Atlan-

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,
Chirp and chatter, and stir and clatter, Hail thee, O glorious Sun! all the earth hails
And an infinite humming and whirring,-

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 !
Forests and rivers and torrents free,

Let chorus and hymn thy praise prolong, Startled, arouse and clap their hands,

O glorious Sun! that comest again
The glad new miracle to see,

With thy ever-new surprise.
And shout, “The Sun! The Sun !”

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,
eagle hovers,

Life of a myriad worlds on high,
And the beaver his mud-dam packs.

Soul of the universe, light of its eye,
There rings the pioneer's axe, and the forest

Who shall his voice refuse,

To swell the chorus that evermore
That has caught the day's first flash

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,
Shudders and falls with a crash.

To the crawling foam that fringes the Far in the south, through thick Brazilian tan


Murmuring impatiently?
The painted parrot screams,

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

King !


their prey,

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,

For the King, the King is coming! Shrouded in shadow dream,
W. W. S. Voices of white cascades, whose veils out-

And hang upon the air,

Chant to the night their praises as they go

To join the torrent hurrying hoarse below

O'er its grey boulders tossed.
NIGHT, beloved night!

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,
A myriad worlds come forth.

Pallid and faint, as they had only known
The riotous day is gone

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

haunts, raving,

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.
And a feeling --- vague, intense, mysterious —
Is brooding o'er valley and hill.

Nor Nature only, - every living thing
The stars in their blue unfathomed tomb Thy influence feels, and all of harsh and
Gleam far and bright,

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.


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His guttural bass the frog sings o'er and o'er. The nightingale that knows to sing
From out the tall dark silhouetted tower,

Love's passion and Love's pain, reting
At intervals, with deep and solemn stroke, Cries Love - Love Love - interp
The church bells strike the quarters and the Their thrill of heart and brain.

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.

Thou sayest,

“Come to me and weep;' All sleep! The tired world sleeps !

Thou givest thy beloved sleep;
A quiet infinite

Thou summonest again the form
The soul of man and nature steeps,

That death hath snatched away,
And smoothes the brow of night.

The glad lost voice, the body warm,
The weary ox lays off his yoke,

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.
The beggar, 'neath his ragged cloak,

O Night of grand repose !
On the cold pavement thrown,

O silent serious Night !
No longer heeds the world's dark frown

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.
By peaceful slumber blest,

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,
Are lifted from their breast,-

To thee our inmost being bare,
As lapped in calm unconsciousness

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
Upon how many a happy pair
That breathe this silvery tranquil air,

Our doubts, remorses, hidden fears,
Serene thou lookest down!

That gnaw within the breast;

To thee, great mother, we confide
As wandering, blest by Life's best boon,

And on thy bosom shed our tears,
Through many a lane and shadowy grove

As thy great arms thou openest wide They lingering talk, or pausing.dream,

To give us rest.
And strive to tell their love;
While following them, now bright now O Night, a secret prophecy

Thou whisperest beneath thy breath
The listening stars above

Of that vast dim infinity,
Through the o'erhanging tree-tops swim

Where broods the silent shadow-
And with them pause, or move.

Their bliss intense, their thrill of sense Listening I seem to hear thee say,-
That words can never half express,

" 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,
And all the heavens above,

Shall bear you — far beyond the woes
The sweet low broken utterances,

Of this short life

- to the repose
The silences of Love.

Of an eternal Paradise.”

W. W. S.

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Fifth Series, Volume XXXVII.

No. 1981. - June 10, 1882.

From Beginning,


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Quarterly Review,

Blackwood's Magazine,

VI. A LA MODE IN 1800,



Jewish Chronicle,

576 609 614 627 634 638 639 640

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