Sonnets ’Tis night ! and the long radiance of the west, Which floated from the cloud-empurpled hill, Hath faded into darkness—all is still ; The winds are hushed, and nature is at rest. The wild deeds of the day no more infest Those who may still be watchful. In high heaven An open volume lies—to mortals given, That they may read the record therein traced : Those glorious characters of light, engraved On that far circling dome, high-roofed and fair— The glowing gems with which heaven’s floor is paved— The hand-writ of Jehovah, shining there— All point us to the throne of him who saved ! How fit this solemn hour—how formed for prayer ! The day was dark and stormy ; but the night Dawns into the brightness, and the silvery moon Pours over sea and land her urn of light, Making of midnight a most pleasant noon. The autumn blasts were withering, and their blight Brought desolation : but a richer boon The balmy showers and breathing zephyrs bring ; And the cold earth, fanned by the breath of spring, Again shall start into luxuriant life. Deformity and beauty—storm and calm— The day-dawn and the darkness—quiet and qualm— Throughout all nature, mix and mingle rife : Then, why should man expect a fixed state, Where all is change—or shrink beneath his fate ? [From a volume entitled “ .” Edinburgh, Fraser and Co. 1838.—Of this volume we have something to say hereafter.]