The New England Weekly Review

NIGHT IN JUNE.

Night steals upon the world-the shades
With silent flight are sweeping down
To sleep-as Day's last glory fades-
In tints of blue the landscape brown;
The wave breaks not-deep Slumber holds
The dewy leaves-the Night-wind folds
Her melancholy wing and sleep
Is resting on the pulseless Deep.

The willows, mid the dark gray rocks,
Are brooding o'er the waters mild,
Like a young mother's golden locks
Low-hanging o'er her sleeping child;
The flowers, that fringe the purple streams,
Are sinking to their evening dreams,
And Earth appears a holy spot
Where Sin and passion waken not.

But see! such pure, such beautiful,
And burning visions spring to birth
In yon far depths, they render dull
The loveliest tints, that mantle Earth:
The Heavens are rolling blue and fair,
And the soft night-gems clustering there
Seem, as on high they breathe and burn,
Bright blossoms o'er Day's shadowy urn.

At this still hour when starry songs
Are floating through Night's glowing noon,
How sweet to view those burning throngs
Glitter around the throne of June!
To see them in their watch of Love,
Gaze from the holy Heavens above,
And, in their robes of brightness roam
Like Angels o'er the eternal dome!

Their light is on the Ocean Isles
'Tis trembling on the mountain stream,
And the far hills, beneath their smiles,
Seem creatures of a blessed dream;
Upon the Deep their glory lies,
As if untreasured from the skies,
And comes soft-flashing from its waves
Like sea-gems from their sparry caves.

Why gaze I thus?-Tis vain--tis vain!-
Twas here I gazed in years gone by,
Ere life's cold winds had breathed one stain
O'er Fancy's rich and glorious sky ;
I feel-I feel those early years
Deep-thrilling through the fount of tears,
And hurrying brightly, wildly back
O'er Memory's deep and burning track!

Twas here I gazed! the night-bird still
Pours her sweet song-the star-light beams
Still tinge the flowers and forest hill
And music gushes from the streams;
But I am changed! I feel no more
The sinless joys, that charmed of yore,
And the dear years so far departed,
Come but to mock the broken-hearted.

J. G. WHITTIER.