The south wind hath its balm, the sea its cheer, And autumn woods their bright and myriad hues; Thine is a joy that love and faith endear, And awe subdues: The wave-tost seamen and the harvest crew, When on their golden sheaves the quivering dew Hangs like pure tears—all fear beguile, In glancing from their task to thy maternal smile! The mist of hill-tops undulating wreathes, At thy enchanting touch, a magic woof, And curling incense fainter odor breathes, And, in transparent clouds, hangs round the vaulted roof. Huge icebergs, with their crystal spires Slow heaving from the northern main, Like frozen monuments of high desires Destined to melt in nothingness again,— Float in thy mystic beams, As piles aerial down the tide of dreams! A sacred greeting falls With thy mild presence on the ruined fane, Columns time-stained, dim frieze, and ivied walls, As if a fond delight thou didst attain To mingle with the Past, And o’er her trophies lone a holy mantle cast! Along the billow’s snowy crest Thy beams a moment rest, And then in sparkling mirth dissolve away; Through forest boughs, amid the withered leaves, Thy light a tracery weaves, And on the mossy clumps its rays fantastic play. With thee, ethereal guide, What reverent joy to pace the temple floor, And watch thy silver tide O’er statue, tomb and arch its solemn radiance pour! Like a celestial magnet thou dost sway The untamed waters in their ebb and flow, The maniac raves beneath thy pallid ray. And poet’s visions glow; Madonna of the stars! through the cold prison-grate Thou stealest, like a nun on mercy bent. To cheer the desolate, And usher in grief’s tears when her mute pang is spent! I marvel not that once thy altars rose Sacred to human woes, And nations deemed thee arbitress of Fate, To whom enamored virgins made their prayer, Or widows in their first despair, And wistful gazed upon thy queenly state, As, with a meek assurance, gliding by, In might and beauty unelate, Into the bridal chambers of the sky! And less I marvel that Endymion sighed To yield his spirit unto thine, And felt thee soul-allied, Making his being thy receptive shrine! A lofty peace is thine!—the tides of life Flow gently when thy soothing orb appears, And passion’s fevered strife From thy chaste glow imbibes the calmness of the spheres! O twilight glory! that doth ne’er awake Exhausting joy, but evenly and fond,