But to the Oriental parent tongue, Sunrise of Nature, does my chosen name, My name of Leila, as a spell, belong, Teaching the meaning of each temporal blame; I chose it by the sound, not knowing why; But since I know that Leila stands for night, I own that sable mantle of the sky, Through which pierce, gem-like, points of distant light; As sorrow truths, so night brings out her stars; O, add not, bard! that those stars shine too late! While earth grows green amid the ocean jars, And trumpets yet shall wake the slain of her long century-wars. LINES WRITTEN IN BOSTON ON A BEAUTIFUL AUTUMNAL DAY. As late we lived upon the gentle stream, Nature refused us smiles and kindly airs; The sun but rarely deigned a pallid gleam; Then clouds came instantly, like glooms and tears, Upon the timid flickerings of our hope; The moon, amid the thick mists of the night, Had scarcely power her gentle eye to ope, And climb the heavenly steeps. A moment bright Shimmered the hectic leaves, then rudely torn By winds that sobbed to see the wreck they made, Upon the amber waves were thickly borne Adonis' gardens for the realms of shade, While thoughts of beauty past all wish for livelier life forbade. So sped the many days of tranquil life, And on the stream, or by the mill's bright fire, The wailing winds had told of distant strife, Still bade us for the moment yield desire To think, to feel, the moment gave,--we needed not aspire! Returning here, no harvest fields I see, Nor russet beauty of the thoughtful year. Where is the honey of the city bee? No leaves upon this muddy stream appear. The housekeeper is getting in his coal, The lecturer his showiest thoughts is selling; I hear of Major Somebody, the Pole, And Mr. Lyell, how rocks grow, is telling; But not a breath of thoughtful poesy Does any social impulse bring to me; But many cares, sad thoughts of men unwise, Base yieldings, and unransomed destinies, Hopes uninstructed, and unhallowed ties. Yet here the sun smiles sweet as heavenly love, Upon the eve of earthly severance; The youthfulest tender clouds float all above, And earth lies steeped in odors like a trance. The moon looks down as though she ne'er could leave us, And these last trembling leaves sigh, "Must they too deceive us?" Surely some life is living in this light, Truer than mine some soul received last night; I cannot freely greet this beauteous day, But does not _thy_ heart swell to hail the genial ray? I would not nature these last loving words in vain should say. TO E. C. WITH HERBERT'S POEMS.