Birth of darkness! bloom of night! Bringing me such rare delight; Floating charm, thy rich perfume Stirs the lagging, weary brain, Hushes all the thoughts of gloom, Soothes or dulls the pangs of pain. This floral wonder, glistening white, Scorning Day’s broad, glaring light, In the sacred stillness now Beams in beauty on my sight, As the star on evening’s brow Beams upon a moonless night. Like a rainbow on the skies, Looked for, yet a glad surprise— Like a meteor’s flash and gleam Crossing midnight’s sullen gloom, Like the fairy forms of dream Is this wondrous, starry bloom. Tell me lovely, mystic flower, Why you gem this gruesome hour? Were the jasper gates ajar? Did the Night, from angel’s crown, Pluck for us its brightest star, And cast the gleaming jewel down? O, thou, pearly, radiant flower! Why give Night such wealth of dower? Why with anthers, dipped in gold, ’Round a carpel, rosy red, Wait in darkness to unfold, And thy queenly beauty spread? Now a sentient presence seeming— Ah! it whispers, or I’m dreaming: “An evangel I’m to thee, With this message from the Past; How e’er full life’s joys may be, Like my bloom they may not last. Throngs are gone—the voices stilled That once these halls with gladness filled; Here, with thee, I stand alone Where, before Night’s ebon throne, Silence holy, waits to bear From thy heart its inmost cry, Wrought into such fervent prayer As doth bring God’s presence nigh.” My Muse. She wanders on, at her sweet will, Thro’ gloomy vales or paths of pleasure, Nor asks the world if grave, or gay, Shall be her theme and measure. She scorns the stilty, stiff Rondeau That artizans must fashion, But loves the brooklets romping flow And Nature’s gush of passion. Tho’ common use has smoothly worn The Sonnet’s polished fetter, She wonders how its chains are borne When freedom’s range is better. The triolet she never tries— She’d lose in such endeavor The glory of the sunset skies, The music of the river. My muse is not a Hellenese With bright, Olympian halo, But that strong, helpful one, that feels The heart-throbs of her fellow. She lifts me from the slough, Despond— Bids Nature hush my sighing By crooning for me sweetest song, While in her bosom lying. The violets, the Spring first kissed, To us, are sweet as heather— We climb the hills, thro’ shining mist, In Autumn’s golden weather. When, Lotus-drugged, Ambition sleeps, She whispers—“Come up higher”— Thro’ starry fields of azure deeps I’m led and feasted by her. She breaks the locks which golden keys Could only open to me, And kindly joins her gift, with Art’s, Earth’s grandest views to show me.