XXXII.

THE DAY IS DONE.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist;
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist ;

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain;

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles rain.

XXXII.

Longfellow.

Into ELEGIACS.

And now the finished day has gone, and the lurid wing of night wends its course through the obscure darkness. Just as from the pinion of the eagle, whilst it climbs the expanse, the feather falls wafted from above to the earth. I look forth afar into the village, while many a lamp shines friendly among the rain and mist. Some unknown sorrow steals over my inmost senses; my mind can neither check, nor would wish to overcome it. Then longing at once and grief pervade me within; but I scarce think that I grieved in the longing. As the rain falls down like the sprinkling mist, a shade like to sadness comes over my senses.

XXXIII.

Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, from the length of our acquaintance with it. The mind may become familiar even with solitude and darkness, and the walls of a dungeon prove more pleasing than the palace. This affection for confinement is similar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison; we look round with discontent, displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth and embitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing; it is company pleases, yet for all this it is little regarded. To us who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise; yet still we love it, husband the wasting treasure with increased frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation.

XXXIII.

Into PROSE, literally rendered.

The longer we may be associated with any thing, so much the more, for the most part, we are attracted towards it. The mind may repose in solitude even and darkness, and may love the walls of a prison rather than a palace. Thus some are affected in regard to confinement, just as all are in regard to life. Habituated to the prison, we painfully look around the hated habitation; yet lengthened captivity only causes that we

are more eagerly bound to our cell. The trees as many as we have planted, the houses we have raised, the children to whom we have given life, bind us down closer to earth, and render us more wretched, whenever we are to be torn asunder from them. Life courts youths as a new companion; the partner, who has not yet wearied, teaches alike and delights. For that, by which we are captivated, is society, although it be not esteemed, as is just, But to us, advanced in age, life is as an old friend; its jokes we have known beforehand in conversation ; it has no new tales to move our laughter; it produces nothing unknown, to be turned to profit. But still we love life, we cherish the treasure the more thriftily, the more it is diminished; and are afflicted with extreme anguish when at length we are to be severed by death.

XXXIV.

Dark to the right, thick forests mantled o'er
A gradual mountain sloping to the plain;
Whose gloom but lent to light a charm the more,
As pleasure pleases most when neighbouring pain;
And all our human joys, most sweet and holy,
Sport in the shadows cast from melancholy.

Below that mount, along the glossy sward
Where gentle groups, discoursing gentle things;
Or listening idly where the skilful bard

Woke the sweet tempest of melodious strings ;
Or whispering love—I ween, less idle they,
For love's the honey in the flowers of May.

Some plied in lusty race the glist'ning oar;
Some, noiseless, snared the silver-scaled prey;
Some wreathed the dance along the level shore;
And each was happy in his chosen way.
Not by one shaft is Care, the hydra, kill'd,
So Mirth, determined, had his quiver fill'd.
Bulwer-King Arthur.

XXXIV.

Into ELEGIACS.

On the right woods overhung in darkness, a gently sloping mountain lies near the meadows. As pleasure associated with pain delights the more, so the denser shade increases the beauties of the spot. That joy of human life appears most holy, which sports in the images of a sickly mind. But beneath the hill, along the herbage of the pleasant grass, a joyous band of men were talking of joyous things. These listlessly catch the strains of the divine bard, as he sweeps the melodious strings of his tuneful lyre. Or whispering, and in earnest, they confess their love; truly love is the honey found in the flower of May. These ply the quick oar in brave contest; to those the fish in the silent pool are rich spoil; others intertwine dances along the edge of the shore; each one was happy in the way peculiar to himself. Not the hydra, not Care, is slain by one dart; but Mirth in his quiver bears many a shaft.

XXXV.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more :

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping:.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow;
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here;

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans nor squadrons stamping.

XXXV.

Scott.

Into ELEGIACS.

O soldier, rest at last, peace being obtained to you; let unbroken sleep soothe thy wearied eyes. Let not fights, fierce battles, any more trouble your mind; sleepless nights, hidden dangers by day. In this island a divine influence reigns through our hall; and unseen hands prepare your bed and couch. Lo, magic strains resound with wondrous sweet