48 The Night-Voices. 



were governed. These, however they may since have been altered 

 and improved, were composed by Loyola ; and we must add the praise 

 of a clear and vigorous understanding to the lofty enthusiasm and un- 

 shrinking fortitude which have been already attributed to him. Whe- 

 ther a good or evil use was made of their influence, or rather whether 

 the good resulting from their machinations and efforts for aggran- 

 disement predominated over the evil produced by their inordinate 

 ambition, is a matter not here to be considered. But to Loyola, at 

 least, we must award the distinction of greatness, if we refuse him the 

 higher merit of virtue. 



THE NIGHT-VOICES. 



THE night lies heavily on wood and wold, 



Dark as the burden of an untold crime 



On man's stained bosom. Sounds of earth are still ; 



But thou, wild Fancy, on the soul enthroned, 



With dreams, the heart-deceivers, girding thee, 



In the wide void of thy mysterious hall 



Art silent never. When the weary day 



Shuts the huge volume of its written cares, 



And the tired thoughts make holiday, 'tis sweet, 



'Mid the old quiet woods, thy fitting shrine, 



To turn the worship of the heart to thee. 



Night's voices are awaking : from the lone, 



Elf-haunted cavern, hark, their stilly call ! 



The winds are lulled by those sweet whisperings ; 



The wearied flowers, earth's rainbows, lay them down 



With folded leaves in clusters ; phantom mists 



sGlide by with noiseless step ; and now the moon 



Comes forth, and like some gentle spirit, fond 



And faithful to a mortal trust, sheds down 



On the earth's beautiful and languid things, 



The love which forms her being ; while the stars, 



The gentle stars, in playful mockery send 



Their beams to glisten o'er the sinuous paths 



Of the sea-shore, like dancing spirits, crowned 



With white wreaths woven of the diamond spray. 



Voices are floating round me. I could dream 



For ever in this solitude, and give 



Words to their sweet communion. Now a flower 



Starts, half-awakened by the dew's cold kiss, 



And the soft rustling of those silken leaves 



Makes a low sudden music. Hark, they sing : 



" Sister, wake thee ; o'er thy cheek 



Dews not of night are stealing ; 

 Thy soft breast heaves with terror; speak, 



What pang art thou concealing ? 



*' A tear, as when the morning grieves, 



Did on thine eyelid glister ; 

 'Tis wiped off with my velvet leaves, 



Awake : art dreaming, sister I" 



