EVENTIDE.

I.

OH! how sweet is eventide !

Come, my loved one, come to me;

Cast domestic cares aside,

As I oft have done for thee:

On the summer bank I stand,
Dark green woods on either hand;

Round my path the flowers are blowing,
O'er my head the sky is clear,

Soft below the stream is flowing,

All were sweet, if thou wert near!

II.

Burning in dilated glow,

See the orb of day expire! And the ambient clouds of snow,

Crimson'd o'er with living fire;

But can that, or these impart
Balm, to heal a wounded heart?
Soften now their tints to amber;

Sink the lines of lingering light; Darkness, from her ebon chamber, Rushing, takes the reins of Night!

III.

Sad and silent are the groves; Birds forget to soar and sing; Past, in short, quick circle roves Drowsy bat on leathern wing. Gently now the evening breeze Curls the lake, and stirs the trees; Dimly now the planets twinkle ;

Darkens round the leafy dell; Sadly fitful, comes the tinkle

Of the distant curfew bell.

IV.

Hast thou, oh my love, forgot, Here in quest of thee I roam ? Night descends on grove and grot, Pensively I wander home.

Love, 'tis thou who can'st impart
Balm, to heal a wounded heart;

Heaven, or hell on earth, thou makest,

Lord and light of all below,

Ecstacy or anguish wakest,

Deepest bliss, or darkest woe!

When none alive are near;

I dream about thee with delight,—
And then thou dost appear

Fair, as the day-star o'er the hill,
When skies are blue, and all is still.

Thou stand'st before me silently,

The spectre of the past;
The trembling azure of thine eyė,

Without a cloud o'ercast;

Calm as the pure and silent deep,

When winds are hush'd and waves asleep.

Thou gazest on me!-but thy look
Of angel tenderness,

So pierces, that I less can brook

Than if it spoke distress,

Or came in anguish here to me
To tell of evil boding thee!

Around thee robes of snowy white,
With virgin taste are thrown;
And at thy breast, a lily bright,
In beauty scarcely blown :-
Calmly thou gazest-like the moon
Upon the leafy woods of June.

The auburn hair is braided soft
Above thy snowy brow :-
Why dost thou gaze on me so oft!
I cannot follow now !

It would be crime, a double death
To follow by forbidden path.

But let me press that hand again,

I oft have press'd in love,

When sauntering thro' the grassy plain,

Or summer's evening grove ;