How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming, When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or ...

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Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood -- Then it will be -- good night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. ...

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1 The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark - now glittering - now reflecting gloom - Now lending splendor, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters, - with a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, amon the mountains lone, Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 2 Thus thou, Ravine ...

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