To the Night Wind. By Charles Swain, Esq. Art thou a lover, wandering the green lanes, And murmuring to thyself some legend old— Strange tale of knight, from dungeon-tower and chains, Led by some spirit from the vaulted mould ? Art thou a lover, through the moon’s fond hours, Fancying thy bride’s cheek in the blushing flowers ? Or mourn’st thou now some faithful heart and dear, That in the churchyard gray thou stay’st so long ; Leaving upon the tall, rank grass a tear, Sighing thy wild and melancholy song ? Art thou a mourner, thou mysterious Wind, O’er beauty lost ? affections left behind ? Or com’st thou from the distant vessel’s side, With blessings laden to the widow’s cot ? Her sailor-boy ! her buried husband’s pride ! Still his lone mother’s home forgets he not ? Say ; art thou herald of the thousand tongues That pour on thee their joys, griefs, hopes, wrongs ? Yes ; sighs are on thee—musical as love— Hopes which are half immortal in their flight ;_ Joys which, like angels, waft the soul above ; Wrongs that call Heaven to vindicate the right ! The cherish’d secrets of each heart and mind Lie bared to thee, thou unrecording Wind ! All things of earth are radiant with romance ; A spiritual language breathes around ! Even thou, lone Wind ! that touchest few perchance, Art still the very poetry of sound ! From thy soft rising to thy wildest hour, Thou sing’st of life, eternity, and power !