THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

BY MISS M.L. BEEVOR.

(For the Mirror.)

Like some young veiled Bride,

Gleams the moon's hazy face,

When tissues that would hide

But lend her charms a grace:

Each winkling starlet pale,

Sleeps in its far, far fold,

Wrapp'd in the heavy veil

Of dewy clouds and cold.

The turmoil, din, and strife,

Of factious earth are o'er;

The turbid waves of life

Have ceas'd to roll and roar;

But tones now meet the ear,

Full fraught with strange delight,

And intermingling fear:

The Voices of the Night!

Not such as softly rise

When boughs with song o'erflow,

And lover's vows and sighs,

Like incense breathe below;

Not such as warm his breast,

Whose fever'd anxious brain

Toils when all else hath rest,

To bring the lost again!

But the owl's boding shriek,

The death-cry of his prey;

The tongues that durst not speak

In bright unslumb'ring day;

The murd'rer's curses fell,

His quiv'ring victim's groan;

The mutt'red, moody spell

Which rocks ABADDON'S throne!

The song of winds that sweep

Impetuously around

Our rolling sphere, and keep

Up conferences profound;

The music of the sea,

When battling waves run mad;

Far sweeter there may be,

But none so wild and sad.

The wail of forests vast

Thro' which pour storms like light,

Whilst rending in the blast,

They feebly own its might!

Deep thund'rings o'er the main:

The short shrill smother'd cry,

Hurl'd to the skies in vain,

Of drowning agony!

The SOMETHING toneless, which

Speaks awfully to men,

Startling the poor and rich,

For CONSCIENCE will talk then;

These are the watch-words drear,

The Voices of the Night,

Which harrow the sick ear,

The stricken heart affright!

Great Marlow, Bucks.