flora’s album. 27 
Convolvulus Minor. 
NIGHT. ' 
I love the light, — yet welcome, Night! 
For, beneath thy darkling fall, 
The troubled brea.st is soothed in rest, 
And the slave forgets his thrall. 
The roar of the city is dying fast, 
Its tongues no longer thrUl; 
The hurrying tread is faint at last. 
The artisan’s hammer is still. 
Night steals apace. She rules supreme ; 
A hallowed calm is shed; 
No footstep breaks, no whisper wakes, — 
’T is the silence of the dead. 
The hollow bay of a distant dog 
Bids drowsy echo start; 
The chiming hour from an old church tower 
Strikes fearfuliy on the heart. 
All spirits are bound in slumber sound, 
Save those o’er a death-bed weeping; 
Or the soldier one that paces alone. 
His guard by the watch-fire keeping. 
Eliza Cook. 
