No VII. Midnight Wanderings. Blue is the vault of heaven—the gems, The thousand flaming diadems, That deck the midnight throne of June, Are glittering silently—the moon, To silver o’er the eastern wave, Leaves not her interlunar cave— All, all is still—no wandering breeze Disturbs the air, or stirs the trees ; The wings of silence overspread Alike the living and the dead, And darkness o’er the land and sea Hangs down her shadows gloomily. Yes, there are times when thoughts of rest Are banished, and the vacant breast, To meditation prone, instils A heavier sense of mortal ills ; When couches cannot yield repose ; When slumber cannot mantle woes ; When o’er the agonized brain Comes Memory, with her busy train Of hopes and visions, cherish’d long— A look—a thought—a word—a song— That conjures up the past, can make A fire, that water cannot slake ; A tempest fierce to roar and roll ; A wild volcano of the soul : Yea, in a dream, this very night, Hath Recollection held her light, Her flaming torch, above the past, Years fled-—joys vanished—hopes o’ercast— Affections blighted—seasons lost— And earth itself a desart coast ! Nor easier do I breathe, though now The chill of night salutes my brow. ’Tis sweet, beneath the cataract To sit, and watch the drizzly rack That reascends, and then renews Its mazy fall in trickling dews ; To see the waters flash and foam In darkness, to their central dome, Amid the sable rocks, which frown Like genii o’er the waters brown ; To hear them roar, with mighty crash, And onwards rush, and downwards dash, Beneath the hazel trees, that throw Their shadows o’er the chasms below— ’Tis sweet to gaze upon the sky, And turn a fond and wistful eye Upon the stars of twinkling ray, Upon the lucid milky way, Upon the long, long vistas, through The trackless paths of placid blue— And why? ’Tis Fancy rules the brain, And draws the thoughts from present pain, And leads us to a lonely spot Where Passion’s voice awakens not. Dim hang the shadowy forests round, Their canopies without a sound, Gigantic—towering—shadowy—drear— Along whose paths quick stalking Fear, With indrawn breath all trembling steals, And dreams Destruction at his heels. The lofty elm its giant boughs Of leafy darkness o’er me throws, And at its base I lay me down, Upon the furze of golden brown, Until returning light shall bring My quiet, and the morning spring. Δ .