Night.

Now to thy silent presence, Night!

Is this my first song offered: oh! to thee That lookest with thy thousand eyes of lightTo thee, and thy starry nobility

That float with a delicious murmuring

(Though unheard here) about thy forehead blue;
And as they ride along in order due,
Circling the round globe in their wandering,
To thee their ancient queen and mother sing.
Mother of beauty! veiled queen!
Feared and sought, and never seen
Without a heart-imposing feeling,
Whither art thou gently stealing!
In thy smiling presence, I
Kneel in star-struck idolatry,
And turn me to thine eye (the moon),
Fretting that it must change so soon:
Toying with this idle rhyme,
I scorn that bearded villain Time,
Thy old remorseless enemy,

And build my linked verse to thee.
Not dull and cold and dark art thou:
Who that beholds thy clearer brow,
Endiademed with gentlest streaks

Of fleecy-silvered cloud, adorning
Thee, fair as when the young sun 'wakes,
And from his cloudy bondage breaks,

And lights upon the breast of morning,
But must feel thy powers;

Mightier than the storm that lours,
Fairer than the virgin hours

That smile when the young Aurora scatters
Her rose-leaves on the valleys low,

And bids her servant breezes blow.

Not Apollo, when he dies,

In the wild October skies,

Red and stormy; or when he

In his meridian beauty rides

Over the bosom of the waters,

And turns the blue and burning tides
To silver, is a peer for thee,
In thy full regality.

The Sleeping Figure of Modena.
Upon a couch of silk and gold
A pale enchanted lady lies,
And o'er her many a frowning fold
Of crimson shades her closed eyes;
And shadowy creatures round her rise;
And ghosts of women masqued in wo;
And many a phantom pleasure flies;
And lovers slain-ah, long ago!
The lady, pale as now she sleeps,
An age upon that couch hath lain,
Yet in one spot a spirit keeps
His mansion, like a red-rose stain;
And, when lovers' ghosts complain,
Blushes like a new-born flower,
Or as some bright dream of pain
Dawneth through the darkest hour.
Once-but many a thought hath fled,
Since the time whereof I speak-
Once the sleeping lady bred
Beauty in her burning cheek,
And the lovely morn did break
Through the azure of her eyes,

And her heart was warm and meek,
And her hope was in the skies.
But the lady loved at last,
And the passion pained her soul,
And her hope away was cast,
Far beyond her own control;

And the clouded thoughts that roll
Through the midnight of the mind,
O'er her eyes of azure stole,
Till they grew deject and blind.
He to whom her heart was given,
When May music was in tune,
Dared forsake that amorous heaven,
Changed and careless soon!

O, what is all beneath the moon
When his heart will answer not!
What are all the dreams of noon
With our love forgot!

Heedless of the world she went,
Sorrow's daughter, meek and lone,
Till some spirit downwards bent
And struck her to this sleep of stone.
Look! Did old Pygamalion
Sculpture thus, or more prevail,
When he drew the living tone
From the marble pale?

An Invocation to Birds.

Come, all ye feathery people of mid air,
Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool;
And ye who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come! O phenix rare!
If death hath spared, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian-lonely nightingale!
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs
Until they waken;-and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouched echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love-come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song),
And with it enrich our ears; come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!

Went. I say your tenderness, your-folly for

This boy becomes you not.

Amel. Away, away.

Went. Madam, while you are Godfrey Wentworth's wife,

These tender-friendships must be laid aside.
Oh! you can smile. By-

Amel. Mr Wentworth, you

I must believe it) jest; you jest with me.

Went. Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool.
Woman, my eyes are open; wide awake
Го you and all my infamy. By heaven

I will not be a by-word and a mock

In all the mouths of men for any-Pshaw!
I still respect your ears, you see; I-

Amel You

Insult Lie, sir.

Went. Forgive me : I indeed

Am somewhat of a prude; you'll scorn me for it.
I still think women modest-in the mass.

Amel. Sir-Mr Wentworth-you have used me ill.
Yourself you have used ill. You have forgot
All-what is due to me-what to your wife.
You have forgot-forgot-can I forget
All that I sacrificed for you?-my youth,

My home, my heart-(you know, you knew it then)
In sad obedience to my father's word?
You promised to that father (how you kept
That promise, now remember) you would save
His age from poverty: he had been bred

In splendour, and he could not bow him down,
Like men who never felt the warmth of fortune.
He gave me up, a victim; and I saw

Myself (ah! how I shuddered) borne away
By you, the evil angel of my life,

To a portentous splendour. I became
A pining bride, a wretch-a slave to all
Your host of passions; but I swore (may God
Forgive me!) to love you-you, when I loved
Another, and you knew it: Yes, you knew
My heart was given away, and yet you wed me.
Leave me, sir!

Went. Have you done? Woman, do you think
This mummery is to work me from my purpose-
My settled will? Mistress, I leave you now:
But this remember, that your minion-Oh,
I do not heed your frowning-your boy-love
Will visit India shortly, or, it may be,

(You are his guide) a prison here, in England.
Farewell.

Amel. Yet stay-a word more ere we quit.
I do beseech you (though my wrongs are great,
And my proud spirit ill can stoop to this),
You take your malediction from this youth.
He is as innocent-I think he's innocent

Of the least ill toward you. For me, I am
Too innocent to sue; yet let me say,
Since the sad hour I wed you, I have been
As faithful to our cold communion

As though my heart had from the first been yours,
Or you been generous after. Once more, sir,
I would implore you-for your comfort-for
Your honour and my name, to spare this boy.
In the calm tone of one who has not erred
I do require this of you.

Went. You but steel

My heart against him. Woman, is your pleading
Always as warm as now? By earth and heaven,
Had I but wavered in his destiny

This would have fixed me. Seek your chamber now,
And in your meditations think how well

Your name may sound (my name !) held up to

scorn.

It may be worth your care. Thus long I've hid
My wrath, and let you wander at your will.
You have grown bold in guilt; be prudent now:
Save a fair name, or I must tell the world
How ill you keep your secrets.

Amel. He is gone;

And I am here-oh! such a weary wretch.
Oh! father, father, what a heart had you
To cast me on the wide and bitter world
With such a friend as this! I would have toiled
From the pale morning 'till the dusk of night,
And lived as poorly, and smiled cheerfully,
Keeping out sorrow from our cottage home.
And there was one who would have loved you too,
And aided with his all our wreck of fortune.
You would not hear him; and-and did I hear
His passionate petitioning, and see

His scalding tears, and fling myself away
Upon a wintry bosom, that held years
Doubling my own. What matters it?-'tis past.

I will be still myself: who's there?

Too gay for earnest talk. Who has been here!
Amel. No one; I will not tell; I've made a vow,
And will not break it, 'till-until I'm pressed.
Ch. Then let me press you.

Amel. Silly boy, away;

Go gather me more flowers, violets.

Ch. Here let me place them in your hair. Amel. No, no ;

The violet is for poets: they are yours.

O rare! I like to see you bosom them.
Had they been golden, such as poets earned,
You might have treasured them.

Ch. They are far more

To me for they were yours, Amelia.
Amel. Give me the rose.

Ch. But where shall it be placed?
Amel. Why, in my hand-my hair.
blushes!

To see us both so idle. Give it me.

Look how it

[Exit Went.

How fond, and true, and faithful

By all my haunted days and wakeful nights,
Oh! by yourself I swear, dearest of all,
I love love you, my own Amelia!
Once I will call you so. Do-do not scorn me
And blight my youth-I do not ask for love;
I dare not. Trample not upon my heart,
My untouched heart-I gave it all to you,
Without a spot of care or sorrow on it.
My spirit became yours-I worshipped you,
And for your sake in silence. Say but once
You hate me not, for this-Speak, speak!
Amel. Alas!

-Speak!

Ch. Weep not for me, my gentle love. You said
Your husband threatened you. Come, then, to me;
I have a shelter and a heart for you,
Where, ever and for ever you shall reign.
Amelia, dear Amelia! speak a word
Of kindness and consenting to me-
If but a word, or though it be not kindness:
Speak hope, doubt, fear-but not despair; or say
That some day you may love, or that if ever
Your cruel husband dies, you'll think of me;
Or that you wish me happy-or that perhaps
Your heart-nay, speak to me, Amelia.
Amel. Is, then, your love so deep?
Ch. So deep? It is

Twined with my life: it is my life-my food-
The natural element wherein I breathe-
My madness-my heart's madness-it is all
-Oh! what a picture have I raised upon
My sandy wishes. I have thought at times
That you and I in some far distant country
Might live together, blessing and beloved;
And I have shaped such plans of happiness,
For us and all around us (you, indeed,
Ever the sweet superior spirit there),
That were you always-fair Amelia,
You listen with a melancholy smile?

Amel. Let me hear all: 'tis fit I should hear all. Alas, alas!

Ch. Weep not for me, my love.

I-I am nought: not worth a single tear:

I will depart-or may I kiss away

Those drops of rain? Well, well, I will not pain you.
And yet-oh! what a paradise is love;
Secure, requited love. I will not go :
Or we will go together. There are haunts
For young and happy spirits: you and I
Will thither fly, and dwell beside some stream
That runs in music 'neath the Indian suns;
Ay, some sweet island still shall be our home,
Where fruits and flowers are born through all the
year,

And Summer, Autumn, Spring, are ever young,
Where Winter comes not, and where nought abides
But Nature in her beauty revelling.

You shall be happy, sweet Amelia,

At last; and I-it is too much to think of.
Forgive me while I look upon thee now,
And swear to thee by Love, and Night, and all
The gliding hours of soft and starry night,
How much-how absolutely I am thine.
My pale and gentle beauty-what a heart
Had he to wrong thee or upbraid thee! He
Was guilty-nay, nay: look not so.
Amel. I have

Been guilty of a cruel act toward you.
Charles, I indeed am guilty. When to-day
My husband menaced me, and told me of
Public and broad disgrace, it met my scorn:
But have I, my poor youth, been so unkind
To you as not to see this-love before!

Charles, I have driven you from your early home; I see it now: I only-hate me for it.

Ch. I'll love you, like bright heaven. The fixed

stars

Shall never be so constant. I am all

Your own. Not sin, nor sorrow, nor the grave,
Not the cold hollow grave shall chill my love.
It will survive beyond the bounds of death,
The spirit of the shadow which may there
Perhaps do penance for my deeds of ill.
Amel. Stay this wild talk.

Ch. Men have been known to love
Through years of absence, ay, in pain and peril;
And one did cast life and a world away
For a loose woman's smile: nay, love has dwelt,
A sweet inhabitant in a demon's breast,
Lonely, amidst bad passions; burning there,
Like a most holy and sepulchral light,
And almost hallowing its dark tenement.
Why may not 1-

Amel. I thought I heard a step.

How strangely you speak now-again, again.
Leave me; quick, leave me.

Ch. 'Tis your tyrant coming:

Fly rather you.

Amel. If you have pity, go.

Ch. Farewell, then: yet, should he repulse youAmel. Then

I will-but go: you torture me.

Ch. I am gone.

[Eri

Amel. Farewell, farewell, poor youth; so desolate That even I can spare a tear for you.

My husband comes not: I will meet him, then,
Armed in my innocence and wrongs. Alas!
"Tis hard to suffer where we ought to judge,
And pray to those who should petition us.
'Tis a brave world, I see. Power and wrong
Go hand in hand resistless and abhorred,
And patient virtue and pale modesty,
Like the sad flowers of the too early spring,
Are cropped before they blossom-or trod down,
Or by the fierce winds withered. Is it so
But I have flaunted in the sun, and cast
My smiles in prodigality away:

And now, and now-no matter. I have done.
Whether I live scorned or beloved-Beloved!
Better be hated, could my pride abate
And I consent to fly. It may be thus.

SCENE II. A Chamber.-Night.

A considerable period of time is supposed to have elapsed between this and the preceding scene. AMELIA-MARIAN.

Mar. Are you awake, dear lady!

Amel. Wide awake.

Nothing but cheerful words, thou idle girl.

Look, look! above: the canopy of the sky,
Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal dress:
A queen might envy that so regal blue
Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas!
I do remember in my follying days
What wild and wanton wishes once were mine,
Slaves-radiant gems-and beauty with no peer,
And friends (a ready host)-but I forget.
I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt,
When I had hope to light me. Have you no song,
My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear?

There's one I've heard you sing: They said his eye'
No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit.
'His eye like the mid-day sun was bright'-
Mar. 'Tis so.

You've a good memory. Well, listen to me.
I must not trip, I see.

Amel. I hearken. Now.

Song.

His eye like the mid-day sun was bright,
Hers had a proud but a milder light,
Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon:
Alas! and must it fade as soon?

His voice was like the breath of war,
But hers was fainter-softer far;
And yet, when he of his long love sighed,
She laughed in scorn:-he fled and died.
Mar. There is another verse, of a different air,
But indistinct-like the low moaning

Of summer winds in the evening: thus it runs

They said he died upon the wave,

And his bed was the wild and bounding billow:
Her bed shall be a dry earth grave:

Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow.
Amel. How slowly and how silently doth time
Float on his starry journey. Still he goes,
And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away.
He rises with the golden morning, calmly,
And with the moon at night. Methinks I see
Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings,
Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men,
Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath.
Lo! I am here, and time seems passing on:
To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing-
Yet he will still be here; and the blue hours
Will laugh as gaily on the busy world
As though I were alive to welcome them.
There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles!

Ch. I am here.

Did you not call?

[CHARLES enters.]

Amel. You come in time. My thoughts

Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother (now
I take that title), in her dying hour
Has privilege to speak unto your youth.
There's one thing pains me, and I would be calm.
My husband has been harsh unto me-yet
He is my husband; and you'll think of this
If any sterner feeling move your heart?
Seek no revenge for me. You will not?-Nay,
Is it so hard to grant my last request ?
He is my husband: he was father, too,
Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once.
Do you remember how his eyelids closed
When the first summer rose was opening?
Tis now two years ago-more, more: and I-
I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy!
He was my only child. How fair he looked
In the white garment that encircled him-
Twas like a marble slumber; and when we
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,

I thought my heart was breaking-yet I lived:
But I am weary now.

Mar. You must not talk,
Indeed, dear lady; nay-

Ch. Indeed you must not.

Amel. Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so.
For ere we journey, ever should we take

A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well,
And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind
Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles,
Wear the remembrance of Amelia.

She ever loved you-ever; so as might
Become a mother's tender love-no more.
Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world
Now almost thirty seasons: you have been
A child to me for one-third of that time.

I took you to my bosom, when a boy,

Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and vanish.

You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd
Will feed upon it, if-but you must make
That heart a grave, and in it bury deep

Its young and beautiful feelings.

Ch. I will do

All that you wish-all; but you cannot die And leave me?

Amel. You shall see how calmly Death
Will come and press his finger, cold and pale,
On my now smiling lip: these eyes men swore
Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky,
And yet they must grow dim: an hour-
Ch. Oh! no.

No, no: oh! say not so.
To hear you talk thus.
Amel. No: I would
That soon must happen.
When I am dead-

Ch. Alas, alas!
Amel. This is

I cannot bear

Will you break my heart? caution it against a change, Calmly let us talk.

Mar. She has left us. Ch. It is false. Revive! Mother, revive, revive! Mar. It is in vain. Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint. Oh! mother, mother. I-I cannot weep. Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes, So I might not gaze on her. And has death Indeed, indeed struck her-so beautiful? So wronged, and never erring; so beloved By one-who now has nothing left to love. Oh! thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now Thy brighter angels to thy bosom-rest, For lo! the brightest of thy host is goneDeparted-and the earth is dark below. And now-I'll wander far and far away, Like one that hath no country. I shall find A sullen pleasure in that life, and when

I say 'I have no friend in all the world,'

My heart will swell with pride, and make a show
Unto itself of happiness; and in truth
There is, in that same solitude, a taste
Of pleasure which the social never know.
From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger,
And, as the body gains a braver look,

By staring in the face of all the winds,
So from the sad aspects of different things
My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up
Against the past. And now-for Hindostan.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

The REV. HENRY HART MILMAN, vicar of St Mary, in the town of Reading, is author of several poems and dramas, recently collected and published in three volumes. He first appeared as an author in 1817, when his tragedy of Fazio was published. It was afterwards acted with success at Drury Lane theatre. In 1820 Mr Milman published a dramatic poem, the Fall of Jerusalem, and to this succeeded three other dramas, Belshazzar, the Martyr of Antioch, and Anne Boleyn, but none of these were designed for the stage. He has also written a narrative poem, Samor, Lord of the Bright City, and several smaller pieces. To our prose literature Mr Milman has contributed a History of the Jews, in three volumes, and an edition of Gibbon's Rome, with notes and corrections. Mr Milman is a native of London, son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis Milman, and was born in the year 1791. He distinguished himself as a classical scholar, and in 1815 was made a fellow of Brazen-nose college, Oxford. He also held (1821) the office of professor of poetry in the university. The taste and attainments of Mr Milman are seen in his poetical works; but he wants the dramatic spirit, and also that warmth of passion and imagination which is necessary to vivify his sacred learning and his classical creations.

[Jerusalem before the Siege.]

Titus. It must be

And yet it moves me, Romans! It confounds
The counsel of my firm philosophy,

That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er,
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.
As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion,
As through a valley sacred to sweet peace,
How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!
Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill-side
Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer
To the blue heavens. There bright and sumptuous
palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ;
There towers of war that frown in massy strength;
While over all hangs the rich purple eve,
As conscious of its being her last farewell
Of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle, dust and smoke,
Are melted into air, behold the temple
In undisturbed and lone serenity,
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary

In the profound of heaven! It stands before us
A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles!
The very sun, as though he worshipped there,
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs,
And down the long and branching porticos,
On every flowery-sculptured capital,
Glitters the homage of his parting beams.
By Hercules! the sight might almost win
The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.

Hymn of the Captive Jews.]
[From Belshazzar."]

God of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat
The fiery winds of desolation flow:
Father of vengeance! that with purple feet,

Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below:

The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay,
Nor springs the beast of havock on his prey,
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way,
Till thou the guilty land hast sealed for wo.
God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign
The billows of the proud their rage suppress;
Father of mercies! at one word of thine

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness!

And fountains sparkle in the arid sands,
And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands,
And marble cities crown the laughing lands,

And pillared temples rise thy name to bless.
O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord!
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate,
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword,
Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;
And heaps her ivory palaces became,
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame,
Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame,

For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate.
O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,
And the sad city lift her crownless head;

And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam, Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.

The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maiden's cull the flowers,
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers,
And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread.
Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,
And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves;
With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep,
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,
'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep,
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy,

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear. And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer,

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome.

[Summons of the Destroying Angel to the City of Babylon.]

The hour is come! the hour is come! With voice
Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee,
Cyrus, the Lord's anointed! And thou river,
That flowest exulting in thy proud approach
To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls.
And brazen gates, and gilded palaces,
And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks,
Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights
Fretted and chequered like the starry heavens:
I do arrest thee in thy stately course,

By Him that poured thee from thine ancient fountain,
And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time,
One of his holy streams, to lave the mounts

Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me: thou dost check
Abrupt thy waters as the Arab chief

His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved
Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound,
I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength;
And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha,
Roll on as proudly conscious of fulfilling
The omnipotent command! While, far away,
The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved,
Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high