SILENCE.

    Next, Silence, fit companion of the Night,
    In drearier depths my being steeping,
    Like the felt presence of an unseen sprite,
    With muffled tread comes creeping, creeping. 
    Before me close her smothering curtain swings,
    And o’er my life a shadeless shadow flings;
    Sinking with pitiless weight, and slow
    To shroud the last sweet glimpse of Earth and Man,
    And set my limits to the narrow span
    Of but an arm’s length here below.

    O, whither shall I fly, this stroke to shun? 
    Where turn me, this side death and heaven? 
    Almost I would my course on earth were run,
    And all to Night and Silence given! 
    I turn to man:  can he but with me mourn? 
    Alike we’re helpless, and, as bubbles borne,
    We to a common haven float. 
    To Him, th’ All-seeing and All-hearing One,
    Behold, I turn!  More hid than he there’s none,
    More silent none, none more remote!

    Alas, Pensylla, stay that pious tear! 
    Now nearer come, I fain thy voice would hear,
    Like music when the soul is dreaming;
    Like music dropping from a far off sphere,
    Heard by the good, when life’s end draweth near. 
    It faintly comes, a spirit seeming,
    The sounds at once entrance me, ear and soul: 
    The voice of winds and waves, the thunder’s roll.

    The steed’s proud neigh, and lamb’s meek plaint,
    The hum of bees, and vesper hymn of birds,
    The rural harmony of flocks and herds,
    The song of joy, or praise, and man’s sweet words—­
    Come to me fainter—­yet more faint
    Was my poor soul to God’s great works so dull. 
    That they from her must hide forever? 
    Earth too replete with joy, too beautiful,
    For me, ingrate, that we must sever? 
    For by sweet scented airs that round me blow,
    By transient showers, the sun’s impassioned glow,
    And smell of woods and fields, alone I know
    Of Spring’s approach, and Summer’s bloom;
    And by the pure air, void of odors sweet,
    By noontide beams, low slanting, without heat,
    By rude winds, cumbering snows, and hazardous sleet,
    Of Autumn’s blight and Winter’s gloom

    As at the entrance of an untrod cave,
    I shrink—­so hushed the shades and sombre. 
    This death of sense makes life a breathing grave,
    A vital death, a waking slumber! 
    ’Tis as the light itself of God were fled—­
    So dark is all around, so still, so dead;
    Nor hope of change, one ray I find! 
    Yet must submit.  Though fled fore’er the light,
    Though utter silence bring me double night,
    Though to my insulated mind,
    Knowledge her richest pages ne’er unfold,
    And “human face divine” I ne’er behold—­
    Yet must submit, must be resigned!

TO THE SHADES.