There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires-'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,

ye are

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a

star.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :-
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense

Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt
And purifies from self: it is a tone,

The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,

Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty;-'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The spirit in whose honour shrines are weak,
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare

Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r! Thy sky is changed!-and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,' But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night :-Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delightA portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black-and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage

Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age

Of years all winters-war within themselves to wage.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.-Herrick.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather proof;

Under the spars of which, I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Has set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar,
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There plac'd by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

"Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand,

That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost Thou send

Me, for this end;

That I should render for my part,
A thankful heart,

NIGHT.-Young.

Say, gentle night! whose modest, maiden beams
Give us a new creation, and present

The world's great picture softened to the sight;
Nay, kinder far, far more indulgent still,
Say, thou, whose mild dominion's silver key
Unlocks our hemisphere, and sets to view
Worlds beyond number; worlds conceal'd by day
Behind the proud, and envious star of noon!
Canst thou not draw a deeper scene?-
The mighty Potentate, to whom belong
These rich regalia pompously display'd
To kindle that high hope?

-and show

Say ye, who guide the wilder'd in the waves,
And bring them out of tempest into port?

On which hand must I bend my course to find him?
These courtiers keep the secret of their KING;
I wake whole nights, in vain, to steal it from them.
I wake; and, waking, climb night's radiant scale,
From sphere to sphere; the steps by nature set
For man's ascent; at once to tempt and aid;
To tempt his eye, and aid his tow'ring thought;
Till it arrives at the great goal of all.

In ardent contemplation's rapid car,

From earth, as from my barrier, I set out.
How swift I mount! diminish'd earth recedes ;
pass the moon; and, from her farther side,

I

Pierce heaven's blue curtain; strike into remote ;
Where, with his lifted tube, the subtile sage
His artificial, airy journey takes,

And to celestial lengthens human sight.
I pause at ev'ry planet on my road,

And ask for HIM who gives their orbs to roll,
Their foreheads fair to shine. From Saturn's ring,
In which, of earths an army might be lost,
With the bold comet, take my bolder flight,
Amid those sov'reign glories of the skies,
Of independent, native lustre, proud;
The souls of systems! and the lords of life,
Through their wide empires !-what behold I now?
A wilderness of wonders burning round;
Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres;
Perhaps the villas of descending gods!
Nor halt I here; my toil is but begun;
"Tis but the threshold of the Deity;
Or, far beneath it, I am grovelling still.
Nor is it strange; I built on a mistake;
The grandeur of his works, whence folly sought
For aid, to reason sets his glory higher;

Who built thus high for worms (mere worms to him);
O where, Lorenzo! must the builder dwell?

A