POEMS
BY FRANCES A. FULLER.
THE VOLUNTEER.
"Night hath made many bards, she is so lovely;"
But in the South's bright clime, of which I speak,
Night holds her court in glory. There she seems
To center all her softness and her light,
To make a focus of her loveliness;
And weaving in her dark veil myriad stars,
Blending their clear light with the softer beams
Of a most queenly moon, she strives to make
Atonement for the burning glare of day
With such a world of sweetness, poetry,
Flowers and perfume, witching light and shade,
Murmuring music, and soft falling dew,
As would have made a gala-night in Eden.
'Twas such a night as this, when o'er the earth
Stole every form of loveliness. The air
Sighed faintly with its burden of perfume,
And lifted on its wings the golden light
That streamed in waving pennons, fluttering
To the slow motion of some zephyr's wing.
Night's sensitive flowers had oped their starry eyes,
Undaunted by the moon's love-looking face,
And breathed their sweetness to the gentle wind
As coyly, yet as tenderly as girls
Whisper the first confession of their love.
All 'neath that sky was loveliness and peace,
