Pomeroy weekly telegraph. [volume] (Pomeroy, Meigs County, Ohio) 1860-1866, 1865-05-18
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ness lends the, weary Earth, not one is half so
beautiful as thatwhieh comes midway between
the Dusk and Dawn. n she breathes upon the
Planet and 1t sleeps she draws her mystic
curtain, and as much repose as Nature can en-.
Joy falls sweetly on the now too dtowsy Day,
which thus forgets its duties done and half be-
lieves the far NitFana which the Brahmin
dreams q partially yRecomplished fact.
& In silent najestE she smiles on her depart
ii sssf Esansss sJSSra s''ass ss weieoss 5ass
her with happy arms; then sheds a thousand
dewy tears upon the Earth from which she sad.
ly parts, and ceasing to be ofthe Present sinks
into the Past. -
Though always beautiful at times the Mid
night is magnificent A thousand glores
shine about her head, and golden silence greets
the spheral music she alone can sing. The
carpets fairy-footed Spring spreads over hill
and valley hush her steps, and yet no football
rustles in the many-colored leaves that AT
tumn casts upon the chilly earth She draws
in Winter warm though icy coverings over
babbling brooks, and in the Summer cools
with fragrant breath the circumambient air.
The sky, that azure desert of the day, she
fills with osses that gladden. all who gaze upon
their holy light, as those that on Sahara s
sands shine like her stars, make glad the wan
dering Arab, thirsting for the rain that Allah
will not send.
Beneath her tender influence the loving soul
may find balm no other presence gives save
that from which it parts because she comes
It gazes at the smiling stars, not half SO bright
as that sweet pair of saint-like eyes into whose
depths it looked moment since; believes the
sky would be far finer if the Pleiad, lost so
long, now newly found, were added to her sis
ters who are riding toward the zenith by Ori-
ons s splendid light, and deems the atmosphere
far sweeter for the breath that came TO it from
that halfbudded rose whose parting lips it
Just has kissed Good night.
what dreamings follow; how the fond i'm
agnation revels in the charms which it cre-
ates and Fancy paints. Now parting lovers
walk on thrones and find beyond a brighter
Paradise than the Midnight bids them leave
Her sword is also made of fame; but while
it guards the golden fruit that both would eat,
it points across the desolation of the Day to
happy hours that evening has in store, and
tells them of better bliss that waits future
hour when Midnight will not bid them part but
make them meet
How tenderly the Midnight folds her inky,
star-bespangled robe about those scenes the
garish Day should never see; with what aban-
don she exposes what the sunlight hides
Love-lightcd eyes, within whose mystic depths
is born an Aphrodite fairer far than she who
found fabled home upon the Cyprian shore,
send glances such as MONDAY never knew,
and ambushed Cupids far more fond than he
who, by his prayers, made his beloved immor-
tai as himself, send such jnv-bearing arrows
through the soul as make an Eden of the hour
and causes it to wish the Dawn were distant
as the fartlest star.
Thou art the paragon of Hours. On thy
bewildering beauty all may gaze; in thy unri
vailed charms the World may nestle like
babe, and draw what inspiration Morrow needs
from that repose thy lavish hand bcstows ''
We feel thy gentle breathing while we write,
and know how soothingly thy touch may fall
upon hot, care-fevercd brow; how tcnderly
thy influence steals across a sad, World-weary
soul \ thousand welcomes nightly greet thy
coming; brt a thousand thousand sighs would
follow thy departure If we did not know thou
wilt return.
We kiss thy feet, Oh! sweet magician of the
sombre Night, in gratitude, and fain would
bask in thy delciousness foraye. Thy wand,
whose spell is far more potent than the one
Prospero broke, has touched our drewsy eyes,
and by its magic aid we hope to bury in pro-
foundest sleep the record of the Day Just dead.
If thou hast fowerct,iuice Ike that Earth
girdling Puck on sleeping lovers eyelids
poured use also it and wake us only when the
high idea of our soul in roseate beauty waits