Wellington at Night.

The hills my stronghold—silence, rich and wise,
To spill a golden wisdom in the grass;
The harbour, polished by the moonlight, lies
Amid those myriad scintillating eyes,
And dreams of winds that pass.
Oh, silver moon, know you my heart is tired?
Oh, golden city-lights that gently quiver,
See, a low mist is gathering on the water,
And on my soul, as the creeping breezes shiver.
And hark! The bells….
The calm is broken by their sudden pealing.
The chiming swells;
Now rises with the wind, is stealing
To fall and echo into silence pale.
They stir the hush of evening,
Brake and clang in chaos, trail
And tumble, fade, and weep into the bosom
Of the wind. They burst and break their bond,
And dance upon the hilltops,
Mingle with the air, and sweep beyond
Into the pine trees, croon
Sigh and bury themselves
In the silver of the moon.
Below, the eye of the carillon glows,
In watchfulness o'er those who might have sinned.
The soul of the bells has left its dwelling-place,
To be laid at rest, by a kobold of a wind.

—(Miss) Vivien Fairhall.