To thee, fair regent of the Night,
I dedicate my lays;
Thy silver beams, reflected light,
Excite our love and praise!

Sequester'd from the beams of Day,
The midnight awful scene
Converts the mind, by nature gay,
To prospects more serene.

Above each vain terrestrial art
Of Life's perplexing care,
Thy genuine graces strike the heart,
Free from delusive glare.

This useful lesson they instil,
That modest Virtues shine;
Like thee the constant course sulsil,
With majesty divine.

It is I that have got a sore start; there is a loch of tears under my pillow.
Though I go to my bed, it is not sleep I am likely to get,
While yon woman in Islay maketh me ever more jealous,
Who took from me my sweetheart, whom I'd choose before a hundred.
Nay, if I were before her, there would kertches be torn off.
Over yonder I see Fiunary, without wealth of any sort therein,
Though I have seen the day when nobles thronged thy greensward.
Some part of them would go to the hunting-hill, some of them to kill the fish,

At the ocean's sound my mood is forlorn — time was that such was not my wont to hear,
But the great shrill-voiced pipe, all music surpassing when Patrick's fingers stirred it.
Woe to him who giveth his trust to the world: often hath it changed its perilous step;
More varied its course than the drops of dew on a morning in May's beginning;
Never under the sun have I beheld him to whom it gave not his day of trouble.
Bear this greeting from me to the hall of wine-cups, haunt of kinsmen in distress;

Wildest wind that shakes the blossoms,
Or on ocean chafes and swells,
Blows not uncontroll'd and wanton,
But as Law compels.

Streams that wander and meander,
Loitering in the meads to play,
Or that burst in roaring torrents
Into foam and spray.

Avalanches, forest-crushing,
Fires that rage in Etna's breast,
Lava-floods and tides of ocean,
All obey the same behest.

Law releases, Law restrains them: —
Lo! the Moon, her forehead bent
Earthward, makes her revolution,
Docile, beauteous, and content.

Who knows how many a potentate of mind
Has lived a stranger on the callous earth,
Nor left a name or memory behind? —
How many an art has perish'd in its birth,
That might have changed the fortunes of mankind,
And re-imparadised us? Who shall tell
All we have lost? What bliss ineffable
Has shone before us — we remaining blind,
Or hostile and indifferent to the light?
Who tell what thoughts, that might have stirr'd the zones,
Have died unheard, because we deem'd it right
To raise great cenotaphs o'er dead men's bones,

Old Earth? Young Earth! — though myriad years,
Since Time's primeval morn,
She may have bloom'd amid the spheres
Before a man was born.

Still young; though race succeeding race
Have trod her breast sublime,
And flourish'd in their pride of place
Their full allotted time, —

Then pass'd away, like daily things,
Nor left a trace behind
To tell how many thousand Springs

Almighty God! we raise
To thee the joyful song;
Let all the earth their Maker praise,
And heav'n the strain prolong.

Our God is worthy to receive
Honor and pow'r divine,
And blessings, more than we can give,
Be, Lord! forever thine:
Let all who dwell above the sky,
And air, and earth, and seas,
Conspire to lift thy glories high,
And speak thine endless praise.

A wreath of Turkish odour winds
Among my books in red and gold.
The philosophic spirit finds
Peace through the pain of growing old.

The warm blue perfume melts and fades
Around the glowing shaft of gas;
And every nervelet that upbraids
Takes comfort from the pangs that pass.

Purer the folding air repeats
The cones of smoke that upward slope,
And lucid grows the brain that beats
Less turbid with the pulse of hope.

The spirals melt in fragrant mist,
And through that mist my books shine clear;

Long time across my path had lain
A far-off bar like gathering rain;
The sunshine beamed along my way,
But this drew nearer day by day.

I walked amid a laughing throng,
I plucked the flowers, I sang my song;
But all the time my load of care,
My bar of threatening cloud, was there.

Some day, I knew, that bar must break
In tempest, fatal for my sake;
And in my heart of hearts I laid
My secret, and was sore afraid.

And yet it caught me by surprise;
Loud thunders pealed across the skies;
Ere I had time for craven fear