180 THOMAS H. SHREVE. [1830-40. The light clouds in the distance loom, Like hopes before youth's tearless eje ; And blithely in the woodland gloom, Each bird lifts up his voice on high. My mind is growing young again, — Fhngs oflf the discipline of years, Forgets that joy is ever vain — A gleam upon a fount of tears. The fire of other days now glows. Diffusing fervor o'er my frame ; Free as thy mane, the hot blood flows And circles round my heart like flame. My spirit echoes every strain That floats upon the merry breeze, And riots o'er the spreading plain, Or mounts to starry heights with ease. Onward, my steed, with right good will — We've left the world of care behuid ; Hope glances from each playful rill. And songs of joy are on the wind. MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. There is a beauty on Night's queen-like brow. With her rich jewelry of blazing stars, That to the heart which yearns for purer scenes And holier love than greets it here, appeals With a resistless force. Great Nature then Asserts her empire o'er the souls of those. Her favored cliildren, on whose eager ears There falls no wind which hath no melody, iVnd to whose eyes each star unfolds a world Of glory and of bliss. The poet feels The inspiration of an hour like this. When silence like a garment wraps the earth, And when the soundless air seems populous With gentle spii-its hovering o'er the haunts Which most they loved while prisoned in their clay. The mysteries of the universe then woo His mind, and lead it up from height to height Of lofty speculation, to the Throne Round which all suns and worlds and sys- tems roll. The Past for him unlocks her affluent stores. And human crowds long gathered home by death To his dark kingdom, people earth again. Palmyra rears her towers above the dust And proudly points her glittering spires to heaven — Rome rises up and seems as once she was, Her haughty eagles floating o'er her hills And flashing back the gaudy light of day Into the blue above — and Babylon Lifts up her head, and o'er her gardens wide The south wind wantons, while her massive gates Swing on their hinges as the human tide Beats up against them. Thus rapt fancy oft Doth build again what, with his iron heel Wild Ruin ground into the very dust. Which cloud-like rises on the tempest's wings As it all-conquering sweeps the desert's waste. Such is the talismanic power divine Of Genius over death and time and space. It reads the dim memorials on the tombs Of buried empires — peoples solitudes — And sways its scepter o'er the realms of night. In its blest missions to the homes of men It turns aside from palaces and pomp. And gently stoops to kiss the pearly brow Of the boy peasant 'neath the humblest roof. With eye anointed, it hath read the stars,
