Chapter III: Midnight on the St Lawrence

Give me my cloak! It is no night for sleep,
And I will wear a vigil with the stars
Until the break of morning. What a scene!
The orient is all molten with the light
Of a perfected moon, and in the west
The deep blue tints look cool, and every star
Is drawn distinctly on the sheet of heaven.
The winds are wholly still, and as we pass,
Breaking the shadows of the many trees
That sleep upon the margin, or go in
Among the graceful windings of the stream,
We seem like wizards, turning into waves
The very sky--it sleeps so perfectly.
The vesper bells are hushed, but I can see
The glitter of the steeples on the hills
That swell up from the shore, and heavenly
As is the face of nature, they come in
Among her features like a pleasant smile,
The thought of worship is so beautiful.

Swiftly, yet gently on! How human things
Are sometimes like a witching vision, fair!
And how the cunning of diviner skill
Can mingle up the elements, to make
A fallen world like heaven! I am made
Subject to ills, and erringly at best
May use my faculties; but I am here
With God’s best work about me, and a mind
Humbly, but purely to the harmonies
Of nature tuned, the only looker on
In all this lovely paradise of light.
Blessed we sometimes are! and I am now
Happy in quiet feelings; for the tones
Of a most pleasant company of friends
Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts
From spirits whose high character I know,
Were spoken at the rising of the moon,
And I retain their influence, as the air
Retains the softness of departed day.
And so I should be happy; and while joy
Is with me, I will bless my company
Of sleeping friends, and if their eyes should rest
Upon this page hereafter, they will know
That in the history of my lonely hours
Some gentler passages were writ by them.

TWILIGHT.

‘----When the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.’
Wordsworth.

O twilight hour! who art so very cool
And balmy in the summer eventide,
With thy rich breathing quieting the winds,
And the uneasy waters; twilight hour!
Whose mantle is the drapery of dreams,
And who hast ever been in poetry
Life’s holy time; thou who wert wont to steal
Upon us, as thy sandals were of dew!
How sadly comes the rustle of thy step,
In the decaying season of the year!

My early fire is low, and hurrying feet
In the short pauses of the wind go by,
And the unquiet leaves, that sighingly
Obey its gusty summons and sweep on,
Seem mourning for the green and pleasant trees;
And the clouds wear sad colors, and I feel
As there were nothing in this fading world,
That is not cold and sorrowful like this.
Thus is it with a spirit not at ease.
It turns no eye within; but, as it were
The mirror of the world’s poor circumstance,
It takes its hue from nature, as if earth
With its discordant elements could tune
The delicate harmonies of human mind.
We have within us fountains, and they flow
With fancy to create the beautiful,
And thought to search out knowledge, and deep love
To link us to society; light mirth
To gladden, and kind sympathies to shade
The spirit; and yet many will go out
With a sealed bosom wandering the world,
To satisfy a thirst for happiness.
How strange it is, that when the principle
Of light is living in us, we should shut
Its emanations in, and darkly stray
To catch a beam from nature, like a star
That should forget its glory and go out,
Because the moon was shining not in heaven!

DAWN.

‘_That_ line I learned not in the old sad song.’
Charles Lamb.

Throw up the window! ’Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind seems liquid--it o’ersteals
My bosom and my brow so bathingly.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts
With its invisible fingers my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God’s creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music, and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank
Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt
Its delicate touch, and ’tis a kindlier thing
Than music, or a feast, or medicine.

I had awoke from an unpleasant dream,
And light was welcome to me. I looked out
To feel the common air, and when the breath
Of the delicious morning met my brow,
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun
Shone on familiar objects, it was like
The feeling of the captive who comes forth
From darkness to the cheerful light of day.
Oh! could we wake from sorrow! Were it all
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside
Like an untimely garment with the morn!
Could the long fever of the heart be cooled
By a sweet breath from nature, or the gloom
Of a bereaved affection pass away
With looking on the lively tint of flowers--
How lightly were the spirit reconciled
To make this beautiful, bright world its home!

SCRAPS FROM A JOURNAL.