2. I've been thinking of home, where they need not the light Of the sun, nor moon, nor star; Where the gates of pearl "are not shut by day, For no night is there," but the weary may Find rest from the world afar. 3. I've been thinking of home, of the river of life Of the tree that stands by the side of the stream, 4. I've been thinking of home, of the loved ones there, With whom we walked to the death-river side, Of the happy days of yore. 5. I've been thinking of home, and my heart is full Of love for the Lamb of God, Who his precious life as a ransom gave For a simple race, e'en our souls to save From justice's avenging rod. 6. I've been thinking of home, and I'm homesick now; My spirit doth long to be In "the better land," where the ransomed sing 7. I've been thinking of home, yea, "home, sweet home;" With the white-robed throng, and forever raise LESSON 161. THE ALHAMBRA BY MOONLIGHT. [The palace or castle called the Alhambra consists of the remains of a very extensive and ancient pile of buildings in Spain, erected by the Moors when they were rulers of the country.] I HAVE given a picture of my apartment on my first taking possession of it: a few evenings have produced a thorough change in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, which then was invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights, and now rolls in full splendor above the towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden beneath my window is gently lighted up; the orange and citron trees are tipped with silver; the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams; and even the blush of the rose is faintly visible. 2. I have sat for hours at my window, inhaling the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the checkered features of those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight, when everything was quiet, and have wandered over the whole building. Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate, and in such a place! 3. The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in summer is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of frame, that render mere existence enjoyment. The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra, has something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather stain, disappears; the marble resumes its original whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams; the halls are illuminated with a softened radiance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale. 4. At such a time, I have ascended to the little pavilion, called the queen's toilet, to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada, would gleam, like silver clouds, against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of the mountain would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would be to lean over the parapet of the Tecador, and gaze down upon Grenada, spread out like a map below me: all buried in deep repose, and its white palaces and convents sleeping, as it were, in the moonshine. 5. Sometimes, I would hear the faint sounds of castanets from some party of dancers lingering in the Alameda; at other times, I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice rising from some solitary street, and have pictured to myself some youthful cavalier, serenading his lady's window; a gallant custom of former days, but now sadly on the decline, except in the remote towns and villages of Spain. 6. Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an hour loitering about the courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying that mixture of reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern climate, and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my bed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa.- Washington Irving. LESSON 162. MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. THE bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss: to give it then a tongue Where are they? With the years beyond the flood, How much is to be done! My hopes and fears And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? 2. How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder, He who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes From different natures marvelously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm a god!-I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! O what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread! What can preserve my life! or what destroy! 3. 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof. While o'er my limbs Sleep's soft dominion spread, What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields, or mourned along the gloom Of pathless woods, or down the craggy steep Hurled headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain! Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod; Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, Unfettered with her gross companion's fall. 34 Young. |