PROGRESS OF EVENING. From yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed : WALTER SAVAGE LANDor. NIGHT. FROM THE ITALIAN. Night dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming star How deep the quiet of this pensive hour! How sweet this stillness, in its magic power O'er hearts that know her voice and own her sway! Stillness unbroken, save when from the flower The whirring locust takes his upward way; And murmuring o'er the verdant turf is heard The passing brook-or leaf by breezes stirred. Borne on the pinions of night's freshening air, Unfettered thoughts with calm reflection come; And fancy's train, that shuns the daylight glare, To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens in gloom; Within my bosom throng to seek a home; Anonymous Translation. IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE, 17538-1528. EVENING. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS, Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow Translation of VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1524-1579. SPRING EVENING. FROM THE GERMAN Bright with the golden shine of heaven, plays On tender blades the dew; And the spring-landscape's trembling likeness sways Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge, Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge Fair is the meadow's green-the valley's copse- The alder-brook-the reed-encircled pond, This manifold world of Love is held in one The glow-worm and the fire-sea of the sun Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree Thou beckonest, and in immensity Is quenched a solar ball! Anonymous Translation. FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON, 1761-1531. SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story Oh hark! oh hear! now thin and clear, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying. O Love, they die on yon rich sky, They faint on hill, on field, on river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying, ALFRED TENNYSON. SONG. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet embroider'd vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; That likest thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flow'ry cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. JOHN MILTON, 1608 LIFE. Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, 1591-1669. HT. ? ve, he sphere! xies, en's harmonies. IIN MILTON, 1608 The roses of the spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet friend! oh, dearer this to me ALEXANDER SMITHL que. TWILIGHT. There is an evening twilight of the heart As fades the day-dream in the rosy west. We gaze upon them as they melt away, But Hope is 'round us with her angel lay, Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight. And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. |