Morning And Night.

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC."          ... Fresh from bathing in orient fountains,      In wells of rock water and snow,      Comes the Dawn with her pearl-brimming fingers     O'er the thyme and the pines of yon mountain;      Where she steps young blossoms fresh blow....     And sweet as the star-beams in fountains,      And soft as the fall of the dew,     Wet as the hues of the rain-arch,     To me was the Dawn when on mountains      Pearl-capped o'er the hyaline blue,      Saint-fair and pure thro' the blue,     Her spirit in dimples comes dancing,      In dimples of light and of fire,      Planting her footprints in roses     On the floss of the snow-drifts, while glancing      Large on her brow is her tire,      Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.     But sweet as the incense from altars,      And warm as the light on a cloud,      Sad as the wail of bleak woodlands,     To me was the Night when she falters      In the sorrowful folds of her shroud,      In the far-blowing black of her shroud,     O'er the flower-strewn bier of her lover,      The Day lying faded and fair      In the red-curtained chambers of air.     When disheveled I've seen her uncover      Her gold-girdled raven of hair -     All hooped with the gold of the even -      And for this sad burial prepare,     The spirit of Night in the heaven      To me was most wondrously fair,     So fair that I wished it were given      To die in the rays of her hair,      Die wrapped in her gold-girdled hair.