. The poetical and prose works of Henry Kirke White. bless his sight On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low, Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, Thy whispered tale, of comfort, and of love, To soothe thy Edwards lorn, distracted soul, And cheer his breaking heart.—Come, as thou didst, When oer the barren moors the night-wind howl d And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne Of the startled night.—Oh ! then, as lone reclining, I listened sadbv to the dismal storm, Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering, Didst strike my moody eye ;—dead pale thou wert, Yet passing lovely.—Tho
. The poetical and prose works of Henry Kirke White. bless his sight On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low, Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, Thy whispered tale, of comfort, and of love, To soothe thy Edwards lorn, distracted soul, And cheer his breaking heart.—Come, as thou didst, When oer the barren moors the night-wind howl d And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne Of the startled night.—Oh ! then, as lone reclining, I listened sadbv to the dismal storm, Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering, Didst strike my moody eye ;—dead pale thou wert, Yet passing lovely.—Thou didst smile upon me, And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, And the stern demon of the tempest, charmd, Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, Locked in the arms of silence. Spirit of only love \—Oh ! now again arise,And let once more thine aery accents fallSoft on my listening ear. The night is calm,The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence. MAH3,£lie mo oil is sleeping oiltV- graire,Ana. cm thy toif thy lcnrei sad is VnpThe big tear in lis sye . - Mary awake ,Trom thy cLark house arise, F. 9 0. MISCELLANEOUS. 91 With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling On the still air. the distant waterfall Mingles its melody :—and high, The pensive empress of the solemn night, Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Shows her chaste face, in the meridian sky. No wicked elves upon the WarlocJc-hioIl Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. It is a night, when, from their primrose beds, The gentle ghosts of injured innocents Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze, Or take their stand by the oppressors couch, And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. The spirit of my love might now awake, And hold itscustomed converse. Alary,lo !Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,And calls upon thy name.—The breeze that blowsOn his wan cheek, will soon sweep over him
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1850, bookpublisheretcetc, bookyear185
