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 NO. 23233 
 
THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 OR SHAKESPEARE AND 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF LUDWIG TIECK. 
 
 BY MARY C. RUMSEY. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM. 
 1854. 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924026224398 
 
LUDWIG TIECK 
 
 AND HIS DEVOTION TO 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 THIS VERSION OF HIS YOUTHFUL 
 
 TRIBUTE TO THE POET IS 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
(9tpt- 
 
 kfClt- $X- &**■ 
 
 *~\ 
 
[DWARD BULOW being with his ho- 
 noured old friend Tieck during the winter 
 of 1847, their conversation often led to 
 remembrances of the Poet's youth, and Bulow fre- 
 quently had the pleasure to hear him read some of 
 his earlier Poetical Essays, chiefly Dramas, which he 
 had fortunately preserved. 
 
 I say fortunately, adds Bulow, not that I at all 
 believed that these productions would be available 
 now for the press, as Tieck had made his choice and 
 already printed several of them in his collected works. 
 
 Yet, for the man of letters, even the least successful 
 and defective attempts of a great genius that he has 
 studied, loved, and honoured, must always be in- 
 teresting as marking the youthful developement of 
 his powers. 
 
Tieck's brother, who had been his companion at 
 the time of their production, was of the party ; and 
 Tieck occasionally read to them some of these early 
 effusions. They afforded especial evidence of the two 
 poetical elements by which the poet in later times had 
 first obtained the favour and love of the public, by 
 that intense and inexhaustible love of nature, evinced 
 in his " Phantasus," and the deep overpowering pa- 
 thos displayed in his " Lowell." 
 
 They undoubtedly manifested in him even then the 
 same courageous derision of the follies of the time 
 which is handled in so masterly a manner in his 
 " Gestiefelte Kater," and repeated in his " Zerbino ;" 
 but the governing tone of his first poems remains al- 
 ways what we have named. 
 
 Of all these youthful poems, one appeared to Bu- 
 low the most remarkable, which Tieck had written in 
 1789, when he was only sixteen years old, entitled, 
 " Die Sommernacht." This, even at the first reading, 
 fixed Billow's earnest attention. Tieck was surprised 
 that he admired this poem so much above the others, 
 
and did not rely on his judgment alone, but after- 
 wards read it to other friends at Bulow's request, 
 and the pleasure they all derived from this poetic 
 trifle fully justified the impression it had made on 
 him. 
 
 For a long time Bulow pressed Tieck in vain to 
 let the " Sommernacht" be printed, but he was not 
 able to overcome his dread of the interpretation which 
 ill-natured criticism might put upon his compliance. 
 At last, on Bulow's perseverance, Tieck gave him to 
 understand that if he published it on his own respon- 
 sibility he would not object. 
 
 Bulow gladly availed himself of this reluctant per- 
 mission, and gave this little gem to the world in the 
 " Rheinisches Taschenbuch" for 1851. 
 
 It is certainly a wonderful production considering 
 the age at which it was written, and would not, I 
 think, have been deemed unworthy of him at any 
 time. 
 
 It is interesting as evidence of how deeply and early 
 the foundation was laid of Tieck's enthusiastic devo- 
 
8 
 
 tion to Shakespeare in after life, and there are few if 
 any of the poetical tributes to his memory that at all 
 approach it. 
 
 Like Bulow, I have obtained a reluctant consent 
 from the fair friend to whom we are indebted for the 
 following spirited version, to print it. I trust it is 
 not saying too much to pronounce it worthy of the 
 original ; and I cannot but regret that Tieck did not 
 live to see it. It would have gratified him living, — 
 and I have therefore inscribed it to his memory. 
 
 s. w. s. 
 
 Mickleham^ 
 December 10, 1853. 
 
THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 (A DRAMATIC SCENE). 
 
 An Open Place. Trees growing about it — low 
 shrubs and a Wood close at hand. 
 
 Enter Shakespeare — a boy, from the wood. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 'SHAW ! Ihavetaken the wrong path again ! 
 Plague on those tempting bushes ! 'Twill 
 be long 
 
 Ere I come here for berries any more. — 
 'Tis growing dusk : how shall I find my way ? 
 And I so weary too ! Well, bye and bye, 
 When the moon rises, I can try again 
 
 B 
 
10 The Midsummeb Night. 
 
 With better chance. Meantime I must lie down, 
 And rest awhile. The sun will soon have set. — 
 
 [Sits down, and gradually becomes drowsy. 
 How soft the breeze steals thro' yon alderbrake, 
 Waving the slender blossoms to and fro ! 
 A gentle shiver creeps o'er all my limbs, 
 Sleep presses on my weary eyelids. Ha ! 
 How gloriously . . . the sun . . . sets . . . 
 
 [Falls asleep — Distant music in the Wood. 
 
 Enter Puck — an Elf, from the Wood. 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 Yonder the day declines — trailing behind 
 His gold and purple robes. Those stately pines 
 Have caught the reflex on their slender tops 
 Which tremble to the breeze. Twilight descends. 
 The Glow-worm now lights up her em'rald lamp ; 
 Bright crystal dews fill every flow'ret's cup ; 
 The wan moon's disk assumes a golden hue ; 
 The Cricket's chirp sounds from the stubble-field ; 
 
The Midsummer Night. 11 
 
 The Bat flits silent from his ivy-home : — 
 
 Now shall I lure some wand'rer from his way ? 
 Mislead the thirsty Pilgrim from the brook ? 
 Or fill, with chink of gold, the dreaming ear 
 Of thrifty Housewife, nodding at her wheel, 
 That waking, she may fret its loss ? — But stay. 
 Evening's last gleam has faded into night, 
 I must wait here, to meet the Fairy King. — 
 
 (Sings.*) 
 
 O'er the briny floods, 
 Thro' dark leafy woods, 
 Over mountain, over vale, 
 Over mead, and flow'ry dale, 
 Troop, ye merry elves of night, 
 Here to hold our revels light ! 
 
 See, the stars on high 
 
 Gem the azure sky ; 
 
 And, the grassy meads along, 
 
 Sounds the Cricket's happy song : 
 
12 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 Over mountain, heath and wood, 
 Over sea, and lake, and flood, 
 Troop, ye merry elves of night, 
 Here to hold our revels light ! — 
 
 Song of Fairies (answering in the distance). 
 
 We swim in the vapours grey, 
 
 Saluting the parting day ; — 
 
 We glide on the white moon-ray — 
 
 Merry Elves all, 
 
 Hither, 
 
 Together, 
 
 We troop to thy call ! [They enter. 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 Where have ye stayed so long ? 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 The sun, but now 
 Has sunk below th' horizon — and thou know'st 
 
The Midsummer Night. 13 
 
 While one of his bright beams yet glows in heaven, 
 I dare not leave the covert of the wood. 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 Hast thou collected from the last blown rose 
 The dewy drops, which, warmed by Cynthia's beam, 
 Do form the bath, wherein our gracious Queen 
 Her lovely person laves ? 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 I have them here 
 Collected lucent, in this diamond-drop. 
 
 THIRD FAIRY. 
 
 And I — look ! in this Chalice, deftly wrought 
 Of tender rose-leaves, I do hold enshrined 
 The perfume of a whole sweet violet bed. 
 
 FOURTH FAIRY. 
 
 Hast thou fulfilled our Lord's commands thyself? 
 
14 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 PUCK {scornfully). 
 
 As if I were a laggard, more than they ! — 
 Why, in an instant, I could reach the moon ; 
 Thrice, in an hour, could girdle the round earth, 
 And with more time, should I accomplish less ? 
 Here are the Lilies, here the rose-buds moss'd 
 And Linden flowers, that I was bid collect ; 
 And spices rich from Ceylon's gorgeous Isle. 
 See, with what lavish hand I scatter round 
 All sweets that grow upon the utmost shores 
 Of Asia, or of burning Africa, 
 Or in deep vallies, hid from human ken. — 
 Ye will trip gaily over them, and spice 
 The air, at every step with frankincense. — 
 And yonder too — for our sweet Fairy Queen 
 I've spread a dainty couch of downy plumes. 
 Azure, and green and gold, stripp'd from the wings 
 Of Butterflies. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 A right brave Spirit thou ! 
 
The Midsummer Night. 15 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 They come ! they come ! Listen, how thro' the trees 
 
 Celestial murmurs breathe, and silver tones 
 
 Float to our charmed ears. — Our King draws nigh. 
 
 Chorus of Fairies. 
 
 In the darkling wood 
 Owlets, hoot no more ; 
 Hence ! to some far shore 
 Slimy viper-brood, — 
 All things vile and ugly, fly, 
 For our Fairy King draws nigh ! — 
 
 Rest, and silence, fill 
 This enchanted ground ; 
 Winds, be hush'd around ; 
 Rustling leaves, be still. 
 All rude tones in softness die, 
 For our gentle Queen draws nigh ! 
 
16 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 Chirp no Cricket here, 
 Flit no wanton breeze, 
 But from out yon trees, 
 Gushing full and clear, 
 Philomel, be thy sweet lay 
 On the night-air, borne away ! 
 
 Enter Oberon and Titania (soft music 
 attending them). 
 
 Chorus op Fairies. 
 To our Fairy-dance 
 See the Queen advance, 
 All in rosy garlands dight 
 Floating hither in the soft moonlight : 
 High is her command, 
 In the Spirit-land ; 
 For her wise and gentle sway, 
 We small Elves do love, and cheerfully obey. 
 
 TITANIA. 
 
 Trace now the ruddy circle, in whose bound 
 
The Midsummer Night. 17 
 
 We spirits may our airy measures weave ; 
 
 Then link yourselves together, Fays, and glide 
 
 Wave-like above the spiry blades of grass. 
 
 How the dew fills the flowers' sweet eyes, like tears — 
 
 They weep because to-morrow they must die. — 
 
 Fairies (singing as they dance). 
 
 Where the moon's trembling light 
 
 Falls on the misty green, 
 
 Where the dew sparkles bright 
 
 Wild flowers and leaves between, 
 
 There we flit — 
 
 Weaving our airy maze : 
 
 Tripping it, 
 
 By those clear silver rays 
 
 Mocking the watcher's gaze ; — 
 
 Thus do we, 
 
 Merrily, 
 
 Live in the nightly gleam ; 
 
 Thirstily, 
 
 c 
 
18 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 Drinking the stars' soft beam : — 
 
 And the tears nightly poured 
 
 Into the flowret's bell, 
 
 Furnish our dainty board, 
 
 Nourish us well. — 
 Over the tall rank grass we hie, 
 In the flower-bells nestling lie, 
 But flowers, nor grass 
 Bend when we pass, 
 So lightly the Fairies' feet trip by ! 
 I' the tangled weed, by ocean's brim, 
 O'er the smooth lake, we sport and swim ; 
 But on sea, nor lake, 
 Will a bubble break, 
 Where Fairy feet do lightly skim. 
 
 TETANIA. 
 
 Break off! sleep steals upon my drooping sense: 
 Murmur some gentle lullaby — and wave 
 Your fans of rose leaves, and the delicate wings 
 
The Midsummer Night. 19 
 
 Of moths — to woo around me cool soft airs, 
 
 And shade mine eyes from Cynthia's glancing ray. 
 
 fairies (chaunt low). 
 Pour, Nightingale, 
 Thy tenderest wail, 
 Rise, mists, and veil 
 
 Our Fairy Queen. 
 
 Flowers, bow your head, 
 And perfume shed 
 Around the bed 
 
 Of our sweet Queen. 
 
 Winds, hushed be ; 
 Oh, Linden-tree, 
 Wave silently 
 
 Above our Queen. 
 
 TITANIA. 
 
 'Tis vain ! sleep will not rest upon mine eyes, — 
 Some mortal sure is lurking near, unseen. 
 
20 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 oberon. 
 A mortal? 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 Who could be so madly rash ? 
 Give me command, and I will punish him — 
 I'll fetch the Ignis-fatuus from the marsh, 
 And sting him with its blue unholy flame. 
 I'll search the wood, and sharpest thistles stick 
 Under his clothes, to vex his flesh profane : 
 I'll make his bold cheek tingle red with shame, 
 For daring on our mystic rites to gaze. 
 
 TITANIA. 
 
 Stay ! look ! oh look !— it is a lovely Boy ; 
 
 How peacefully he sleeps, while on his face 
 
 The moonbeams play — sure some enchanting dream, 
 
 All full of sunshine, holds him captive now, 
 
 For see, he smiles —how softly ! Oberon, 
 
 It was but yesternight, we joyful held 
 
The Midsummer Night. 21 
 
 Our feast of reconcilement — shall it be 
 
 That our first act, united, is revenge ? 
 
 Is not this Boy as beauteous as a Child 
 
 Of Fairy-land ? Shall we misuse the power 
 
 That we are gifted with, to work him ill ? 
 
 Nay — how much better, how much nobler 'twere, 
 
 Worthier of spirits good, our might t' employ, 
 
 For good alone. Is not the feeling sweet, 
 
 Unspeakably, when we may furtherers be 
 
 Of happiness, to any ? Is it not 
 
 This same most holy feeling, that makes men 
 
 Grow to resemble gods ? Then, Oberon, 
 
 My Lord — my love — yield to my pleading now ; 
 
 Let us, instead of harming, send him hence 
 
 Enriched with blessings. 
 
 OBERON. 
 
 Yet, thou know'st thyself 
 How strict the laws are of our Spirit-realm ; 
 This bold intruder, who . . . 
 
22 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 titania. 
 
 Nay, blame not him ; 
 He lost his way in the 'wild wood, and Chance 
 Led him to rest too near this haunted ground ; 
 And must he suffer for the trick of Fate ? 
 No — let us, kindly spirits, give him cause 
 To-morrow morn, to bless that wanton Fate. 
 Oberon ! this is the first prayer of thy Queen, 
 Of thy so lately reconciled love ; 
 Thou wilt not — canst not — sternly say her nay ! 
 
 OBERON. 
 
 Be it then, as thou wishest. — But, what gifts 
 Would'st thou bestow on him ? 
 
 TITANIA. 
 
 Not riches — no, 
 The base desire of little minds. — Go, Fays, 
 Fetch me Forget-me-nots and Violets, 
 That so I may endow him worthily. — 
 But pluck no flower that has not first to-night 
 
The Midsummer Night. 23 
 
 Opened its virgin bud, unsunned and pure. 
 Bring odorous Thyme, and Lilies, sweet and pale 
 Gleaming by moonlight. — Hasten, and return 
 Ere Time's quick pulse has numbered many beats. 
 
 faibies (departing). 
 
 Off! through the wood, 
 
 With the speed of light, 
 We fly to gather 
 
 The buds of night. 
 Their scent we'll bear, 
 Through the dewy air, 
 Thither, and back in an instant's flight. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 TITAJUA. 
 
 Upon his brow I'll press their balmy juice, 
 And consecrate him to the minstrel art. 
 
 Fly like a moonbeam, Puck ! outstrip the wind ! 
 Far to the north there lies a moss-grown rock 
 
24 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 Adown whose side dashes a mountain stream, 
 Thousands of flowers bloom lovely at its foot, 
 These gather, — and then westward fly beyond 
 The sea, whose restless billows lash the cliffs 
 Which curb their mad career, and send their roar 
 Far inland — heard amid the hush of night — 
 There wilt thou find a rugged mountain, clothed 
 From base to summit, with a dark pine wood, 
 And in the midst thereof, a lonely spot 
 Where ray of sun or moon hath never pierced — 
 Under the bushes, dry and withered, there, — 
 Amidst the stones and moss, grows a white flower ; 
 Within its cup a single drop of dew 
 Has slowly, slowly gathered — till it now 
 Imparts to the wan flower its own warm blush — 
 This bring me quick — but shake not from its breast 
 The precious drop. — Haste, lest the other sprites 
 Be here before thee. 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 Nay — I'd run a match 
 
The Midsummer Night. 25 
 
 With any of the winds, and come in first ! [Exit. 
 
 TITANIA. 
 
 How knew'st thou of that flower 1 
 
 OBERON. 
 
 In the sad time 
 Of our estrangement, Sweet, I wandered oft 
 On that rude mountain, thro' that sombre wood, 
 Oft sat forlorn in the waste solitude, 
 Or pined in dim caves, with the hooting Owl : 
 'Twas then I watch'd the drop gradual distil 
 Into the flower. All such slow-ripened fruits 
 A spirit pervades, that with the human soul 
 Hath a mysterious sympathy — in some 
 A healing virtue dwells, to cure disease. 
 Some will excite Ambition — Hatred — Love — 
 The flower my servant seeks, will kindle high 
 The glow of fervid phantasy. They come. 
 
 Enter Puck and the Fairies, 
 puck. 
 I'm first, remember ! 
 
26 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 first fairy. 
 
 As we left the wood 
 We heard thee rushing o'er the farthest mead. 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 Here are Forget-me-nots. 
 
 THIRD FAIRY. 
 
 Sweet Violets here. 
 
 FOURTH FAIRY. 
 
 All hare unfolded since the day's decline. 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 Here are the blossoms gathered from the dell 
 Beside the waterfall — here the pale' flower — 
 See ! in its bosom— like a ruby gem, 
 Gleams undisturbed the precious mystic drop. 
 
 titania (stooping over Shakespeare). 
 These various flowers I scatter o'er thy brow, 
 
The Midsummer Night. 27 
 
 And as their mingled fragrance round thee floats, 
 
 Let golden visions wreathe thine inner sense ; 
 
 O sing, as none before thee ever sung, 
 
 As never mortal after thee shall sing ! 
 
 These odorous buds, that on thy breast I lay, 
 
 Wake in thee tenderest sensibility, 
 
 The might of love, a fancy pure and bright — 
 
 More heavenly bright, than ever yet has burned 
 
 In mortal breast. A Poet thou shalt be, 
 
 The greatest earth has known — whose altitude 
 
 No after spirit shall have power to reach. 
 
 Gaze thou entranced upon the rising sun, 
 
 Or golden light of eve. — Wander alone 
 
 By dewy moonlight thro' the still, green wood, 
 
 And with a pulse, whose every beat is joy, 
 
 Watch how the buds swell from the dark brown rind 
 
 Call'd forth by spring. — Be great, yet nothing reck 
 
 Of thine own greatness — keep an innocent heart, 
 
 Unsoiled by taint of pride. Not to thyself, 
 
 Though to all else, seem thou the first of men. 
 
28 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 Lo ! I pour out on thee this mystic drop, 
 
 And thro' thy bosom inspirations throng 
 
 Dazzling, tumultuous ! Thoughts, whose lofty flight 
 
 Shall touch all matters, penetrate them all, 
 
 Or boldly leap o'er ev'ry dim abyss — 
 
 Thy genius shall transport thee far beyond 
 
 All circumscribing limits. — Deep beneath 
 
 In the earth's bowels, shall thy spirit searc'h 
 
 Her magic secrets— then rebound aloft, 
 
 And take its flight to heaven. — Thou shalt know 
 
 A strange delight, when midnight tempests roar, 
 
 When storms uproot the huge Oaks from the hill, 
 
 And hurl them crashing to the vale below. — 
 
 On nature's terrors, thou with fearless joy 
 
 Shalt gaze ; thy heart throb with wild ecstacy, 
 
 When on the precipice's giddy brink 
 
 Thou standest, marking where the torrent boils, 
 
 Roaring and surging, fathoms under thee ! 
 
 Oh sing, as none before thee ever sung, 
 
The Midsummer Night. 29 
 
 As never mortal after thee shall sing ! — 
 
 Shine thou, thy happy country's richest gem — 
 
 Live thou, delight of ages yet to come — 
 
 Let thy renown survive the lapse of time 
 
 In undimm'd splendour, and posterity 
 
 The most remote, with rev'rence naming thee 
 
 And envy, say, " Would I had Shakespeare heen ! " 
 
 fairies (sing). 
 
 Thrice happy thou ! 
 
 Whom Oberon doth delight, 
 
 With our Ladie bright, 
 Thus to endow ! 
 
 Thrice happy thou ! 
 
 Whom a godlike race, 
 
 With such godlike grace, 
 Richly endow. 
 
 TITANIA. 
 
 When thou becom'st a man — grateful recall 
 
30 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 This night eventful — and to after times 
 
 In sweetest numbers sing, what now thou dream'st. 
 
 Tell them of Oberon and Titania's strife 
 
 And their glad reconcilement — This, the meed 
 
 Of thanks, thou shalt requite our gifts withal. — 
 
 Now dawn, soft blushing, calls the slumbering day ; 
 The moon looks pale, faint gleams the morning star, 
 Back to our woods we Fairies must away ; — 
 But often near thee, gentle Boy, will I 
 Hovering, fill all thy soul with keen delight. 
 On moonlight nights, when pensively thou sit'st 
 Musing beside some silver rill, or rov'st 
 In spring-tide, drinking in with ravished ear 
 The song of Philomel — I will be by. 
 
 OBEROU. 
 
 Now fare thee well ! Thou spirit-favoured child ; 
 
 I too will visit thee, when with deep awe 
 
 Thou mark'st the cataract leap o'er some tall rock, 
 
 Or silent track'st the forest solitudes, 
 
 Or climb'st the mountain peak, to watch the clouds 
 
The Midsummer Night. 31 
 
 Pregnant with thunder, gathering far below 
 In solemn blackness — when thy bosom heaves 
 With a tumultuous bliss, and thy cheeks glow, 
 I will be near, and cool thy fever-flush, 
 And send a shivering transport to thy soul ! 
 
 Chorus of Fairies. 
 
 Morning awakes, 
 
 To thickets and brakes 
 
 Away we hie ; 
 Before the day's beam, 
 The wan moon's gleam, 
 
 And the night-stars fly. 
 
 In deep green dells, 
 In the lily's bells, 
 
 We crouch all day. 
 But again at night, 
 When the stars shine bright, 
 
 We shall frisk and play. [Exeunt. 
 
32 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 puck. 
 Must I depart, and nothing leave with thee ? 
 I am no spirit of high rank — 'tis true — 
 Such royal gifts, as Oberon and his Queen 
 / have not to bestow. — Yet, I can breathe 
 A merry humour into thee. — Be thine 
 The power, whene'er thou will'st, to drive away 
 Black melancholy from each human breast ! 
 
 No trifling priv'lege — So forget me not ! 
 
 When thou art dead, Boy, what a strife I'll raise 
 Among a hundred little carping souls, 
 Who will misjudge, with endless blunderings, 
 Thy noble works. — Yet all the brighter thence 
 Shall grow the light of thy world-wide renown. — 
 
 Now from the village crows the wakeful cock 
 Rousing the laggart Day — cool breezes blow, 
 Paler and paler still, the wan moon fades. 
 The Owl flits noiseless home to the dark wood, 
 Already on her nest the sky-lark shakes 
 The night-dew from her wings — I must away ! [Exit. 
 
The Midsummer Night. 33 
 
 Shakespeare {slowly awakes). 
 
 Where am I ? oh ! where have I been ? who spoke ? 
 
 How heavenly pure seems every breath I draw ! 
 
 How sunny bright the rushing thoughts, that chase 
 
 Each other through my soul ! and oh, how sweet 
 
 The melody, still echoing on my ear ! 
 
 What spot was that I saw, veil'd in soft mist ? 
 
 Where have ye vanished, bright celestial forms ? 
 
 Are your enchanting voices silent now ? 
 
 Ah me ! It was but a delicious dream ! — 
 
 Day dawns apace — how cheerful is this place 
 
 That lately look'd to me so blank and drear. 
 
 My very spirit seems to grow more light 
 
 As I inhale this fresh elastic air. 
 
 What means this longing for some good unknown ? 
 
 Why beats my heart so wildly ? Whence this deep 
 
 Emotion, that would fain have vent in tears ? 
 
 'Twas never so before — e'en the green wood 
 
 Wears now a different look from yesterday. 
 
 Yonder shines Hesperus, and there the sun 
 
34 The Midsummer Night. 
 
 Rises in glory, and mine eyes are wet. — 
 
 Oh whence these strange, these more than human, these 
 
 Godlike sensations ? All is ecstacy ! 
 
 I feel strong and elate, as I could spring 
 
 Up to the very moon — as if inspired 
 
 With new-born life, I could, all powerful, grasp 
 
 Great Nature, in a loving, close embrace. 
 
 My thoughts in freedom revel, and expand. 
 
 'Twas but a few hours since, weary and dull, 
 
 I flung myself beneath this tree to rest, 
 
 And now ! My past life, seems like a dark night, 
 
 That vanishing gives place to day's bright gleams, 
 Which chase the shadows one by one away, 
 Till every object stands revealed and clear. — 
 Oh ! that I had an Eagle's towering wing 
 To soar aloft, and meet the golden dawn. 
 Oh ! that I might on yon white fleecy cloud 
 Float thro' the blue expanse, or drive along 
 In wild career before the tempest blast ! — 
 The sun's first beams have woven a rich couch 
 Whereon pale Hesper bows his head to rest, 
 
The Midsummer Night. 35 
 
 And thro' the crimson portals of the east 
 Gush down a thousand golden streams of light. 
 The Nightingale still chaunts from the deep grove, 
 The Lark mounts upward, with exulting trill. 
 How wondrous fair this world ! Each pulse, each 
 
 breath, 
 Each fibre of my body, thrills with joy ! 
 Whither ? ah whither ? I am rapt ! am lost ! 
 
 ¥ I N I S. 
 
FKINTED ET C. WHITTINGHAM. 
 

 
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