50 The Night-Voices. 



In the rich twilight of the greenwood, when 

 His love put on the mask of poesy, 

 Because he feared its aspect might affright 

 That lovely thing it worshipped. Thus it ran : 



I send thee flowers ; and marvel not that they 

 Are so soon withered ; their rich scent and hue 



Have, like ourselves, but one brief tearful day 

 Children of sunshine, and the starry dew. 



Some bright with death, some with deep passion pale, 



Poor silent mourners, I will tell their tale. 



This rose was gathered in her twilight dream 

 Because she dreamed of a forbidden heaven ; 



This lily, jealous of the diamond gleam 



Of fairy tears, which not to her were given, 



Recked not of blight when she her bosom bared ; 



Oh, judge them not, for I their crime have shared. 



This shade-born violet saw how bright ones basked 

 In noon-tide glories, to herself denied ; 



She envied them, and of the sunshine asked 

 One only kiss but of its sweetness died ; 



Though just her doom may be, I scarce can blame 



Her tender fault : who would not do the same ? 



This heartVease, when from out his leafy screen, 

 In pleading tones, the night's lone chorister 



Prayed to his scornful lovearose unseen, 



And deemed, vain thing, that sweet voice sang for her. 



Entranced, she bowed her blushing leaves, and this 



Neglected weeper died of too much bliss. 



Sweet, take these flowers, love's martyrs do not spurn 

 Their humble moral, for their crimes atone 



Themselves. Of all the scorpion thoughts which turn 

 Their stings on their own bosoms, love alone 



Can need no judgment on its weakness sent 



For in itself is its worst punishment. 



We will forgive thy discontented song, 

 Thou lonely bird ; for ever thou hast been 

 In love with sorrow. Yet the crowded paths 

 Of yonder world enough of witness have 

 To prove thy moral true. 



Behold ! a change 



Hath shadowed o'er the dreamy wilderness ; 

 Beneath, the pale flowers lift their drooping heads 

 With a quick tremulous motion, and remain 

 Fixed as in sudden dread ; above, the stars 

 Break into gazing groups, and pallid stand 

 Like gay young dancers in some festal hour, 

 When death hath stol'n upon their revelry. 

 The clouded air grows thick with flitting forms, 

 Like heralds that prepare the wondrous way 

 Of some mysterious pageant. Hark ! the voice, 

 Whose deep pervading sound hath fettered thus 

 All living things, like spirit forced to hear 

 The fearful muttering of a master-spelU 



