VII.

Come to the vine-dark dingle's whispering glens White with their blossoms pale; Come to the willowed weed-haired lakes and fens; Come to the tedded vale. Come all, and greet the brown-browed child With lips of honey red as a poppy wild, Clothed in her vernal robes of old, Her hair with wheat All tawny as with gold; Hail Summer with her sandaled grain-bound feet!

NIGHT.

Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flame On burnished axle quits the drowsy skies! And as his snorting steeds of glowing brass Rush 'neath the earth, a glimmering dust of gold From their fierce hoofs o'er heaven's azure meads Rolls to yon star that burns beneath the moon. With solemn tread and holy-stoled, star-bound, The Night steps in, sad votaress, like a nun, To pace lone corridors of th' ebon-archéd sky. How sad! how beautiful! her raven locks Pale-filleted with stars that dance their sheen On her deep, holy eyes, and woo to sleep, Sleep or the easeful slumber of white Death! How calm o'er this great water, in its flow Silent and vast, smoothes yon cold sister sphere, Her lucid chasteness feathering the wax-white foam! As o'er a troubled brow falls calm content: As clear-eyed chastity in this bleak world Tinges and softens all the darker dross.

See, where the roses blow at the wood's edge In many a languid bloom, bowed to the moon And the dim river's lisp; sleep droops their lids With damask lashes trimmed and fragile rayed, Which the mad, frolic bee--rough paramour-- So often kissed beneath th' enlivening sun. How cool the breezes touch the tired head With unseen fingers long and soft! and there From its white couch of thorn-tree blossoms sweet, Pillowed with one milk cluster, floating, swooning, Drops the low nocturne of a dreaming bird, _Ave Maria_, nun-like, slumb'ring sung. See, there the violet mound in many an eye, A deep-blue eye, meek, delicate, and sad, As Sorrow's own sad eyes, great with far dreams, When haltingly she bends o'er Lethe's waves Falt'ring to drink, and falt'ring still remains, The Night with feet of moon-tinged mist swept o'er Them now, but as she passed she bent and kissed Each modest orb that selfless hung as tho' Thought-freighted low; then groped her train of jet Which billowing by did merely waft the sound Of a brief gust to each wild violet, To kiss each eye and laugh; then shed a tear Upon each downward face which nestled there.

She weeping from her silent vigil turns, As some pale mother from her cradled child, Frail, sick, and wan, with kisses warm and songs Wooed to a peaceful ease and tranquil rest, When the rathe cock crows to the graying East.

DAWN.

Mist on the mountain height Silvery creeping; Incarnate beads of light Bloom-cradled sleeping, Dripped from the brow of Night.

Shadows, and winds that rise Over the mountain; Stars in the spar that lies Cold in the fountain, Pale as the quickened skies.

Sheep in the wattled folds Dreamily bleating, Dim on the thistled wolds, Where, glad with meeting, Morn the thin Night enfolds.

Sleep on the moaning sea Hushing his trouble; Rest on the cares that be Hued in Life's bubble, Calm on the woes of me....

Mist from the mountain height Hurriedly fleeting; Star in the locks of Night Throbbing and beating, Thrilled with the coming light.

Flocks on the musky strips; Pearl in the fountain; Winds from the forest's lips; Red on the mountain; Dawn from the Orient trips.

JUNE.