 | Poems |  |
126
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THE TRYSTING HOUR.
The dusky twilight fast doth fade,
The sun hath sunk to rest,
In all his kingly pomp array'd
Upon the ocean's breast.
The bird roosts in its leafy cell,
Upon the greenwood tree,
And all in earth and heaven doth tell
Of sweet tranquillity.
Then ope thy lattice pane, love,
And leave thy silken bower,
And smile yet once again, love,—
It is the trysting hour.
The sun hath sunk to rest,
In all his kingly pomp array'd
Upon the ocean's breast.
The bird roosts in its leafy cell,
Upon the greenwood tree,
And all in earth and heaven doth tell
Of sweet tranquillity.
Then ope thy lattice pane, love,
And leave thy silken bower,
And smile yet once again, love,—
It is the trysting hour.
127
Come forth, the stars are gleaming bright,—
The young moon, queenly fair,
With pure, and pale, and cloudless light,
Illumes the azure air.
The nightingale is singing near
Its wild, sweet tale of love,
As if to charm each shining sphere,
From its high place above.—
Then ope thy lattice pane, love,
And leave thy silken bower,
And smile, yet once again, love,—
It is the trysting hour.
The young moon, queenly fair,
With pure, and pale, and cloudless light,
Illumes the azure air.
The nightingale is singing near
Its wild, sweet tale of love,
As if to charm each shining sphere,
From its high place above.—
Then ope thy lattice pane, love,
And leave thy silken bower,
And smile, yet once again, love,—
It is the trysting hour.
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