'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
The scent of dewy flowers bear,—

I climbed a lofty hill, whose shade
A spreading train around me made :
The summit gained, the sunset bright
Burst like a vision on my sight;
While, rich in varied wood and field,
The lovely landscape lay revealed.

I saw the distant river gleam,
Sparkling beneath each brilliant beam;
And watched the sun, descending slow,
Tow'rds the far hills in grandeur go,
And seem, as on their crest he lay,
The funeral pyre of the day.

Then, sinking gently down to rest,
He vanished from the golden west;
While the last parting look he threw
Was rich with many a varied hue,
And the bright rays that shot on high
Made one great glory of the sky.

The fleece-like clouds that hung o’erhead
Their gentle wings above him spread,
And caught upon their plumage fair
The beauteous beams that mounted there;
Like holy men, whose lives are bright
With rays of heav'n's reflected light.

It was as though some monarch great
Had passed in all the pomp of state,
With martial train and banners proud,
Before a wonder-stricken crowd,
And, through the portal wide and tall,
Entered some splendid palace-hall.

But soon o'er that enchanting scene,
So pure, so lovely, and serene,
There stole a dark and altered look,
While all around an aspect took
That seemed, amid the fading light,
The shadow of the coming night.

The sunset glory waned away,

And twilight gathered, drear and grey ;
While all the clouds, that lately shone
Like golden trappings of a throne,
Now grimly lowered over all,

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,
That late one blaze of light had been,
Save where some cottage taper bright
Broke through the growing gloom of night.

But suddenly there gleamed on high
Upon that dim and shadowy sky,
Over the western hills afar,

A brilliant, solitary star,

So clear and fair, 'twas like a gem
From some celestial diadem.

And, like a beacon-fire on shore,
That shines the waste of waters o'er,
By some benighted crew descried
When pilotless they roam the tide,
That star awoke within my heart
A joy that shall not soon depart.

Oh! beauteous are the charms of morn,
When growing beams the hills adorn ;
And lovely is the noontide hour,
When all is full of life and pow'r :
But neither noon nor morning bears
So sweet a grace as evening wears.

And, like the Sabbath, which bestows
Upon the week a soothing close,
So to the day the evening brings
Repose and comfort on its wings,
And sheds on hearts by toil opprest

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;
While earth and air hail with delight

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,
Is mirrored in the crystal stream.

The flow'rs that deck the day

Their weary petals close ;
The birds their lightsome lay

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,
So pure, so calm, so clear,
It seems to cast a spell,

Surpassing strong, and yet so light, O'er sleeping earth and heavens bright.

With ripple light and low,

Doth the swift brook rejoice;
Unwearied is its flow,

And merry is its voice :
But happier glides the strain along
Of that unhesitating song.

Over the meadow-grass,

And underneath the trees,
With rustle soft, doth pass

The newly-wakened breeze:

But sweeter on the ear there floats
The sound of those melodious notes.

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:
But none compares with thee

Of all I ever heard ;

And more than all thy strain I love,

Thou minstrel of the slumb'ring grove.