J.C.H.
* * * * *
STANZAS
TO THE SPIRIT OF EVENING.
(_For the Mirror._)
Mild genius of the silent eve!
Thy pathway through the radiant skies,
Is the rich track which sunbeams weave
With all their varied, mingling, dyes,
Ere yet the lingering sun has fled,
Or glory left the mountain's head.
Yet not one ray of sunset's hue
Illumes thy silent, peaceful train;
And scarce a murmur trembles through
The woods, to hail thy gentle reign,
Save where the nightingale, afar,
Sings wildly to thy lonely star.
Yet gentlest eve, attending thee,
Come meek devotion, peace, and rest,
Mild contemplation, memory,
And silence with her sway so blest;
And every mortal wish and thought,
By thee to holiest peace is wrought.
Thine airs that crisp the quiet stream,
Are soft as slumbering infants' breath:
The trembling stars, that o'er thee beam,
Are pure as Faith's own crowning wreath:
And e'en thy silence has for me
A charm more sweet than melody.
Oh gentle spirit, blending all
The beauties parting day bestows,
With deeper hues that slowly fall,
To shadow Nature's soft repose;
So sweet, so mild, thy transient sway,
We mourn it should so soon decay.
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