How sweet it was, at eventide,

To be with thee and fancy roaming, When Summer wanton'd in its pride,

As down yon cliff the stream was foaming; As humm'd around the busy bee,

As music woke from every tree;

How sweet it was !-but feeling now

No more such heavenly joys can borrow; With thee the scene hath lost its glow

It spoke of bliss, and speaks of sorrow: Mirth, music, friendship, have no tone Like that, which with thy voice hath flown!

Though beauty bless the landscape still, Though woods surround, and waters lave it,

My heart feels not the vivid thrill

Which long ago thy presence gave it ;

With thee the blissful feelings grew,
With thee, alas! they perish'd too!
And memory only now remains,

To whisper joys that once delighted ;-
Still, still I love to tread these plains,

To seek this hallow'd haunt benighted;

And glean a something sadly sweet,

In resting on this mossy seat!

STANZAS.

WHEN THOU AT EVENTIDE, &c.

WHEN thou at eventide art roaming

Along the elm-o'ershadow'd walk, Where fast the eddying stream is foaming, And falling down,—a cataract,—

'Twas there with thee I wont to talk ; Think thou upon the days gone by, And heave a sigh.

When sails the moon above the mountains,
And cloudless skies are purely blue,
And sparkle in her light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew,

Then be thou melancholy too,

While pausing on the hours I proved
With thee, beloved.

When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling,
And lingering shadows disappear,
As soft the woodland songs are swelling,
A choral anthem, on thine ear,

Muse, for that hour to thought is dear, And then its flight remembrance wings To by-past things.

To me, through every season, dearest ;—
In every scene, by day—by night,
Thou, present to my mind, appearest
A quenchless star, for ever bright;
My solitary, sole delight—
Where'er I am, by shore-at sea,—
I think of thee!

THE

EVENING LANDSCAPE.

A sunny leaf in memory's pictured tome.

ANON.

BACK from the portals of the west,
The sun in cloudless glory gazes,
While in the beechen shade I rest
Upon a bank of daisies.

It is the Sabbath of the day,

Which every forest leaf is keeping;

The hum of life hath died away,
The passions all are sleeping.

It seems as conscious Nature yields

At her Creator's shrine devotion ;

There comes no music from the fields,

No murmur from the ocean.

A silent joy-a holy pride

Steals on my swelling heart, and o'er me; The visions of my boyhood glide

In bright review before me.

One lovely eve, at such an hour,

The woods were green, the sun was shining,

And I, within this beechen bower,

Upon the bank reclining;

When up yon path my loved one came,
In all the pride of vernal brightness,
With brow of snow, and lip of flame,
And form of fairy lightness.

I clasp'd my seraph to my breast,
With ecstasy my heart was beating,
And hers, within its joyous nest,
Was throb for throb repeating.

H