WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
Watchman! tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are:
Traveler! o'er yon mountain's height
See that glory-beaming star!
Watchman! doth its beauteous ray
Aught of hope or joy foretell?
Traveler! yes, it brings the day,
Promised day of Israel.
Watchman! tell us of the night;
Higher yet that star ascends:
Traveler! blessedness and light,
Peace and truth, its course portends.
Watchman! will its beams alone
Gild the spot that gave them birth?
Traveler! ages are its own,
And it bursts o'er all the earth.
Watchman! tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn:
Traveler! darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Watchman! let thy wanderings cease;
Hie thee to thy quiet home:
Traveler! lo! the Prince of Peace,
Lo! the Son of God is come!
HYMN
From the recesses of a lowly spirit
My humble prayer ascends--O Father! hear it!
Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meekness,
Forgive its weakness.
I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy
The trembling sacrifice I pour before Thee;
What can I offer in Thy presence holy,
But sin and folly?
For in Thy sight who every bosom viewest,
Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest;
Thoughts of a harrying hour, our lips repeat them,
Our hearts forget them.
We see Thy hand--it leads us, it supports us;
We hear Thy voice--it counsels and it courts us;
And then we turn away--and still thy kindness
Pardons our blindness.
And still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glowing,
Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing,
And, as if man were some deserving creature,
Joys cover nature.
Oh, how long-suffering, Lord!--but Thou delightest
To win with love the wandering; Thou invitest
By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,
Man from his errors.
Who can resist Thy gentle call--appealing
To every generous thought and grateful feeling?
That voice paternal--whispering, watching ever:
My bosom?--never.
Father and Savior! plant within that bosom
These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom
In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,
And spring eternal.
Then place them in those everlasting gardens
Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens;
Where every flower that creeps through death's dark portal
Becomes immortal.
FROM LUIS DE GONGORA--NOT ALL NIGHTINGALES
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Think not the voices in the air
Are from the winged Sirens fair,
Playing among the dewy trees,
Chanting their morning mysteries;
Oh! if you listen, delighted there,
To their music scattered o'er the dales,
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Oh! 'twas a lovely song--of art
To charm--of nature to touch the heart;
Sure 'twas some Shepherd's pipe, which, played
By passion, fills the forest shade:
No! 'tis music's diviner part
Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
In the eye of love, which all things sees,
The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees--
And the golden flowers--and the sloping hill--
And the ever-melancholy rill--
Are full of holiest sympathies,
And tell of love a thousand tales.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales,
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
From 'Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain.'
FROM JOHN KOLLAR--SONNET
There came three minstrels in the days of old
To the Avaric savage--in their hands
Their own Slavonian citharas they hold:
"And who are ye!" the haughty Khan demands,
Frowning from his barbaric throne; "and where--
Say where your warriors--where your sisters be."
"We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here
From the far borders of the Baltic sea:
We know no wars--no arms to us belong--
We cannot swell your ranks--'tis our employ
Alone to sing the dear domestic song."
And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy.
"Slaves!" said the tyrant--"these to prison lead.
For they are precious hostages indeed!"
From the 'Cheskian Anthology.'
FROM BOGDANOVICH (OLD RUSSIAN)--SONG
What to the maiden has happened?
What to the gem of the village?
Ah! to the gem of the village.
Seated alone in her cottage,
Tremblingly turned to the window;
Ah! ever turned to the window.
Like the sweet bird in its prison,
Pining and panting for freedom;
Ah! how 'tis pining for freedom!
Crowds of her youthful companions
Come to console the loved maiden;
Ah! to console the loved maiden.
"Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
Clouds of dust cover the valley;
Ah! see, they cover the valley.
"Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
List to the hoof-beat of horses;
Oh! to the hoof-beat of horses."
Then the maid looked through the window.
Saw the dust-clouds in the valley;
Oh! the dust-clouds in the valley.
Heard the hoof-beat of the horses,
Hurried away from the cottage;
Oh! to the valley she hurries.
"Welcome, O welcome! thou loved one."
See, she has sunk on his bosom;
Oh! she has sunk on his bosom.
Now all her grief has departed:
She has forgotten the window;
Oh! quite forgotten the window.
Now her eye looks on her loved one,
Beaming with brightness and beauty;
Oh! 'tis all brightness and beauty.
From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets.'