T/tc Night-Voices.. 



Was't sleep ? a royal shape there stood 



Beside my rest, but now, 

 The spirit fair that decks the wood, 



That paints the blossomed bough. 



Her crown was gone, her white brow bare ; 



And, free from braid or fold. 

 Floated afar her glittering hair 



Like flakes of sunset's gold. 



She stood beside me ; sleep dispersed 



As mist beneath her eye ; 

 Then from her faded lips there burst 



A low and mournful cry. 



And it was like the mandrake's shriek, 

 When the hot blight burneth him ; 



For the fierce death- fever flushed her cheek, 

 And her bright, bright eye was dim. 



Her voice was sweet in its disdain, 

 Like the springlet's under tune ; 



Like a whispering gush of honied rain 

 On the thirsting leaves of June. 



" Thou art," it said, " a little flower, 



Thy home a desert spot ; 

 Fain would thy parent earth devour 



The form she loveth not. 



" Flower, I am called to die : 'tis well, 

 For the summer's breath doth sear- 



Now am I seeking leaf and bell 

 To dress me for my bier. 



"They heed me not; my children love 

 The gay green earth too well : 



They joy to gaze on the skies above, 

 And to dive in the secret dell, 



" To paint the slope of the fairy mound, 

 And toy with the robber-bee . 



I may not pass alone uncrowned 

 Wilt rise and go with me ?" 



Sister, that little flower, unknown. 



Unprized by living thing 

 Of all earth's gems, that flower alone 



Was the wreath of the dying spring. 



There was a murmur of embracing leaves, 

 And with a dewy kiss the flowers lay down 

 And slept again ; the glow-worm left the nook 

 Where he had crept the^curming evesdropper 

 To listen what the whispering flowers might say. 

 The distant ocean, like a wayward child, 

 Had moaned himself to slumber; and the wood 

 Was silent, till another voice awoke 

 With a low mournful cadence, whose sad strain 

 A nightingale, a silly mocking thing, 

 Learned from a weeping lover, as he sate 

 JAN. 1837. E 



