THE RUIN. Happier, happier far than thou, She that makes the humblest hearth THE RUIN. "Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life Wordsworth. "Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it." No dower of storied song is thine, O desolate abode ! Forth from thy gates no glittering line Guesses at Truth. Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here Tells where the spirit of delight Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, House of quench'd light and silent board! For me thou needest not. It is enough to know that here, Thou bindest me with mighty spells! A presence all around thee dwells, I need but pluck yon garden flower To wake, with strange and sudden power, Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth! Voices at eve here met in mirth Which eve may ne'er recall. Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, And childhood's laughing glee, --་ ་མན་ — -- ---- ་ 243 And song and prayer, have all been known, Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd As if in every fervent word The living soul were shed; Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, The seat left void, the missing face, Till from the narrowing household chain Is there not cause, then-cause for thought, Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Where, in its ever-haunting thirst For draughts of purer day, Man's soul, with fiful strength, hath burst Holy to human nature seems To deep affections, tender dreams, Therefore in silent reverence here, Hearth of the dead! I stand, Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, Have link'd one household band, THE MINSTER. "A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath THE SONG OF NIGHT. Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death Broods with a voiceless influence on the air: Leave me to linger silently awhile! -Not for the light that pours its fervid streams But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace! By every grief hath made its might confest! THE SONG OF NIGHT.* "O night, And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, I COME to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew The glory of its birth. Byron * Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented un der the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms. 245 པ་ཆ 1 =སྐར་ག*་ས་“་ ཐ་་་་ 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, I come with peace:—I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, On my own heart I lay The weary babe; and sealing with a breath I come with mightier things! I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, I bring them from the past: I bring them from the tomb : 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, I, that with soft control, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON. I, that shower dewy light 247 Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest-birth THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.* "Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal? MIDNIGHT, and silence deep! With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath; Gleam through my dungeon bars Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death! Looks too intensely through my troubled soul; An earth-load on my breast Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll! And kingly tempests!-will ye not arise? That knows not to rejoice But in the peal of your strong harmonies. By sounding ocean-waves, And flashing torrents, I have been your mate; Of the olden Apennines, In your dark path stood fearless and elate: Your lightnings were as rods, That smote the deep abodes Of thought and vision-and the stream gush'd free; soul again May swell to burst its chain Bring me the music of the sweeping sea! *Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness-fired by lightning-now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprison. ment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.-See LANZI'S History of Painting, translated by Roscoe. |