'TWA EVENING. WAS evening in the summer-time, And in the summer's sweetest prime, When the green woods all peaceful lie, Unruffled glide the waters by, And the low breathings of the air I climbed a lofty hill, whose shade I saw the distant river gleam, Then, sinking gently down to rest, The fleece-like clouds that hung o’erhead It was as though some monarch great But soon o'er that enchanting scene, The sunset glory waned away, And twilight gathered, drear and grey ; Like folds of a funereal pall. Wrapt in a mist the valley lay The hills hung dark-and scarce a ray Lit up the dull and cheerless scene, But suddenly there gleamed on high A brilliant, solitary star, So clear and fair, 'twas like a gem And, like a beacon-fire on shore, Oh! beauteous are the charms of morn, And, like the Sabbath, which bestows The heaven-born joys of peace and rest. THE NIGHTINGALE. "He that should hear, as I have, the clear airs of the nightingale, the sweet descants, the rising and falling of her voice, might well be lifted above the earth, and say, 'Lord, what music hast Thou provided for Thy saints in heaven, when Thou hast given bad men such music here on earth?"-Izaak Walton. N gath'ring gloom around, IN The daylight fades from view ; And on the thirsty ground Descends the welcome dew; The gentle presence of the night. The stars, with rays of gold, Spangle the azure sky; Till, beauteous to behold, Mounting in state on high, The full-orbed moon, with brilliant beam, The flow'rs that deck the day Their weary petals close ; Have hushed into repose; Whilst slumber seems all else to bind Save babbling brook and whisp'ring wind. But, hark! a voice I hear From yonder thicket swell, Surpassing strong, and yet so light, O'er sleeping earth and heavens bright. With ripple light and low, Doth the swift brook rejoice; And merry is its voice : Over the meadow-grass, And underneath the trees, The newly-wakened breeze: But sweeter on the ear there floats Mysterious bird of night, Thou hidden fount of joy, What sources of delight Thy ceaseless tongue employ? Thou seemest, with thy music grand, Some spirit of the better land. Oh! welcome is to me The song of ev'ry bird: Of all I ever heard ; And more than all thy strain I love, Thou minstrel of the slumb'ring grove. |