HOW lovely, Evening, is thy parting smile!
The twilight softness of thy glowing sky
May well the poet’s pensive dream beguile,
And kindle rapture in his languid eye.
There is a quiet magic in the sigh
Of thy cool breezes, and thy twinkling dews,
The insect’s hum, the birds’ wild melody,
Thy few faint stars, and all the varying hues
That o’er thy pallid cheek their maiden blush suffuse
I love the setting sun’s last glance of light,
When vernal clouds have wept themselves away:
Flowers are more fragrant, and their tints more bright;
More blithe the nightingale’s reviving lay:
The drops fall sparkling from the leafy spray,
As fitful breezes toss the straggling brier;
And the far hill flings back the level ray;
So pure the liquid air, that cot and spire,
Distinct in distance, gleam with evening’s golden fire.
The poet’s glances, wheresoe’er they roll,
A paradise of living splendor make;
And in the magic mirror of his soul,
Earth’s simple beauties lovelier forms awake;
As in the green depth of some limpid lake,
Unruffled by the west wind’s vesper sighs,
Tree, hill, and cloud, a softened brilliance take,
Till all the landscape in reflection lies
A fairy world of light, enshrin’d in purer skies.
But spring hath sights which melt upon the mind
With an o’erpow’ring beauty: early flow’rs
That children in their evening rambles find;
The soft, half-open’d foliage, wet with show’rs;
Luxuriant shoots, that o’er the twilight bow’rs
Wave wildly: dappled skies, and sparkling rills.
And spring hath music for our love-sick hours:
Wild notes of forest warblers; and the hills,
All silent as they seem, a mingled murmur fills.
The ploughman’s careless whistle, the low bleat
Of youngling flocks, the drowsy-tinkling bell,
The bark of village watch-dogs, as they greet
The homeward shepherd, on the breezes swell,
While evening darkens o’er the misty dell.
O then I love to wander, all unseen,
Walks lengthen’d as the length’ning light may tell,
And muse, with many a roving thought between,
And quiet to the soul from nature’s quiet glean.
In all the calmness of a cloudless eve,
How gently dies a long, long summer day!
O’er yon broad wood, as loth to take its leave,
It sheds, at parting, its most lovely ray;
And golden lights o’er all the landscape play–
And languid zephyrs waft their rich perfume
Where the wide lattice gives them open way,
And breathe a freshness round the twilight room,
From jasmine, clematis, and yellow-blossom’d broom.
There is a home-felt stillness in the hour,
When heaven’s bright azure takes a deeper shade,
And fragrance sleeps in every closing flower.
Then, ere the amber glow is all decay’d,
The volume or the work aside is laid;
And the pleas’d mother views, with glist’ning eye,
The little games by happy childhood play’d,
Her fair-hair’d girls all breathless running by,
With cries of mimic fear and laugh of ecstacy.
When the far clock hath toll’d the hour of rest,
They, side by side, before their mother kneel,
And pray their gentle slumbers may be blest,
And their pure spirits dew-like influence feel
Of grace and goodness. Oh! what raptures steal
Upon a parent’s soul at childhood’s prayer!
That innocence, might all her sorrows heal:
The lifted hands, the feature’s placid air,
The hymn so sweetly lisp’d, have all enchantment there.
And then the good-night kiss: and they repose
In dreamless rest, or dreams of happiness:
And the warm cheek with livelier colour glows,
As, half unconsciously, with fond caress,
The wearied infants to each other press,
And fall asleep together. Happy sleep!
The sage might envy thee, the saint might bless:
O! could’st thou in thy own true Lethe steep
The sunk and haggard eyes that wake, and wake to weep!
Come, walk with me, where, o’er the dewy lawn,
The fir-tree wafts its incense, and the gale
Breathes freshly from the waters; for the dawn
Of moon-light brightens o’er the winding dale;
And while the startled owlets shriek and wail,
One flood of splendor bathes the distant hill,
The corn-field bosom’d in the wood, the vale
With river mists o’ershadow’d, hush’d and still,
Save where in murmurs dies the rushing of the mill.
Soon shalt thou hear, fair moon, a blither greeting
Than poet’s invocation, or the cry
Of owlet:–Shout and laugh in chorus meeting,
Where youths and maids their harvest labour ply,
And the slow wain, with dewy sheaves pil’d high,
And grating wheels, rolls homeward: the shrill song
Of infant gleaner swells the revelry;
And aye, with dying fall the notes among,
Will echo’s airy tones the melody prolong.
In the deep stillness of the moonlight grove,
Where trembling leaves a chequered shadow made,
Of yore the fairy-people lov’d to rove;
And soft as that dim light and mellow shade,
(Joanna Baillie)
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