ELOISE.
Night, lovely nun, had donned her sable vail,
And softly as a dream had stolen forth
From evening's shadowy cloisters, and begun
To light her vestal fires in heaven's high vault.
When these were burning bright, she lifted up
The moon's great golden lamp to heaven's midst,
And shrinking from the light herself had made,
Fled to the shadows of the woods and hills,
To keep her holy vigil. The tired earth slept
Softly as girlhood, and the air was still
As infant's breathing, save when from the grove
Came the low murmur of dew-dripping trees,
And notes of night-birds singing to their loves.
But it was burdened with the sweets of flowers,
And the rich fragrance of magnolia trees,
That lifted their proud, lovely heads afar
Toward the brightness of the beaming sky,
As loving and imploring—as our souls
Go out in prayer to beauty, with a gush
Of holy tenderness we can not quell.
Amid the scene, the only unblest thing,
Walked Manhood, with his hot and painful pulse
Throbbing with scarce less fever even when
Night's holy presence chided his mad dreams.
He walked and mused; anon he flung his arms
With passionate vehemence; and low words,
Uttered with emphasis that thrilled the air,
Came from his writhing lips; and his bent head
Was lifted not toward heaven—as if he feared,
Or had forgot its beauty. Thus he strode,
Muttering his restless fancies to himself,
And making discord in night's silent hymn,
Till from the shadow of an orange grove
