Hymn to the Night

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    I heard the trailing garments of the Night
    Sweep through her marble halls!
    I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
    From the celestial walls!

    I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
    Stoop o'er me from above;
    The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
    As of the one I love.

    I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
    The manifold, soft chimes,
    That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
    Like some old poet's rhymes.

    From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
    My spirit drank repose;
    The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
    From those deep cisterns flows.

    O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
    What man has borne before!
    Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
    And they complain no more.

    Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
    Descend with broad-winged flight,
    The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
    The best-beloved Night!


    A Psalm of Life

    WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG
    MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST

    Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
    Life is but an empty dream!—
    For the soul is dead that slumbers,
    And things are not what they seem.

    Life is real! Life is earnest!
    And the grave is not its goal;
    Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
    Was not spoken of the soul.

    Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
    Is our destined end or way;
    But to act, that each to-morrow
    Find us farther than to-day.

    Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
    And our hearts, though stout and brave,
    Still, like muffled drums, are beating
    Funeral marches to the grave.

    In the world's broad field of battle,
    In the bivouac of Life,
    Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
    Be a hero in the strife!

    Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
    Let the dead Past bury its dead!
    Act,—act in the living Present!
    Heart within, and God o'erhead!

    Lives of great men all remind us
    We can make our lives sublime,
    And, departing, leave behind us
    Footprints on the sands of time;

    Footprints, that perhaps another,
    Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
    A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
    Seeing, shall take heart again.

    Let us, then, be up and doing,
    With a heart for any fate;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
    Learn to labor and to wait.


    The Reaper and the Flowers

    There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen,
    He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between.

    "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
    "Have naught but the bearded grain?
    Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
    I will give them all back again."

    He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
    He kissed their drooping leaves;
    It was for the Lord of Paradise
    He bound them in his sheaves.

    "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
    The Reaper said, and smiled;
    "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
    Where He was once a child.

    "They shall all bloom in fields of light,
    Transplanted by my care,
    And saints, upon their garments white,
    These sacred blossoms wear."

    And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
    The flowers she most did love;
    She knew she should find them all again
    In the fields of light above.

    Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
    The Reaper came that day;
    'T was an angel visited the green earth,
    And took the flowers away.


    The Light of Stars

    The night is come, but not too soon;
    And sinking silently,
    All silently, the little moon
    Drops down behind the sky.

    There is no light in earth or heaven
    But the cold light of stars;
    And the first watch of night is given
    To the red planet Mars.

    Is it the tender star of love?
    The star of love and dreams?
    Oh no! from that blue tent above
    A hero's armor gleams.

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