Rezenvelt—­Ha! does the night-bird greet me on my way?  How much his hooting is in harmony With such a scene as this!  I like it well.  Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, I’ve leant my back against some knotted oak, And loudly mimicked him, till to my call He answer would return, and through the gloom We friendly converse held.  Between me and the star-bespangled sky, Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave, And through them looks the pale and placid moon.  How like a crocodile, or winged snake, Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length!  And now transformed by the passing wind, Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus.  Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue Comes swiftly after.—­ A hollow murm’ring wind sounds through the trees; I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm.  I must not linger here—­

     [A bell heard at some distance.] The convent bell. 
     ’Tis distant still:  it tells their hour of prayer. 
     It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze,
     That, to a fearful, superstitious mind,
     In such a scene, would like a death-knell come.
          [Exit.]

     TO MRS. SIDDONS

     Gifted of heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
     Moved every heart, delighted every eye;
     While age and youth, of high and low degree,
     In sympathy were joined, beholding thee,
     As in the Drama’s ever-changing scene
     Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen! 
     No barriers there thy fair domains confined,
     Thy sovereign sway was o’er the human mind;
     And in the triumph of that witching hour,
     Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

     The impassioned changes of thy beauteous face,
     Thy stately form, and high imperial grace;
     Thine arms impetuous tossed, thy robe’s wide flow,
     And the dark tempest gathered on thy brow;
     What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
     Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne;
     Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
     The fixed and yearning looks of strong affection;
     The active turmoil a wrought bosom rending,
     When pity, love, and honor, are contending;—­
     They who beheld all this, right well, I ween,
     A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen.

     Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
     Loud rage, and fear’s snatched whisper, quick and low;
     The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
     And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
     The change of voice, and emphasis that threw
     Light on obscurity, and brought to view
     Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
     Or mingled humors, terse and new, elude
     Common perception, as earth’s smallest things
     To size and form the vesting hoar-frost brings,
     That seemed as if some secret voice, to clear