N I G H T.
Nox, one of the most ancient deities among the heathens, was the daughter of Chaos. From her union with her brother Erebus, she gave birth to day and light: she is called by some of the poets, the mother of all things, of gods no less than of men, and was worshipped with great solemnity by the ancients, who erected to her a famous statue in Diana's temple at Ephesus. The cock was offered to her, as the bird which proclaims the coming of the day. She is drawn mounted on a chariot, and covered with a veil bespangled with stars, and the constellations preceded her as her messengers.
Sometimes she is seen holding two children under her arms, one of which is dark like night, and the other light like day.
"Night, when like perfumes that have slept
All day within the wild flower's heart,
Steal out the thoughts the soul has kept
In silence and apart:
And voices we have pined to hear,
Through many a long and lonely day,
Come back upon the dreaming ear,
From grave lands far away,
And gleams look forth of spirit eyes
Like stars along the darkening skies!"
Hervey.
She has been described by some of the modern writers, as a woman clothed in mourning, crowned with poppies, and drawn in a chariot by owls and bats.
SONG OF NIGHT.
"I come to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts; for every flower, sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of world's afar.
I come with peace; I shed
Sleep through the wood walks, o'er the honey bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done.
But in the human breast,
A thousand still, small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
I bring them from the past,
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb!
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove—
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train;
Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead,
Phantoms of heart and brain.
Looks from departed eyes—
These are my lightnings! fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too precious to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
I that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one! the arm'd, the strong,
The searcher of the soul.
I that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest birth
Of memory, thought, remorse:—be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn night!"
Hemans.