I.
A quiet summer evening, when the daybeams' heat and glare
Have passed away, and coolness comes upon the cloudless air,
And the soft grey twilight wakes the stars to glisten o'er the hill,
And the only vesper-chime is rung by one low-murmuring rill:
Like such an evening is the soul of that one dark-eyed maid,
Amid earth's restless turmoil like a calm and pleasant shade;
So soothing and so gently sweet her words of deep love fall
Upon the wearied spirit, like the ringdove's forest call.
Well hath she learnt to sympathize with every hope and fear,
Well hath she learnt the sorrowing heart to brighten and to cheer;
Long years of weary weakness have not passed away in vain,
If the holy art of sympathy they taught her to attain.
Her fairy footstep falleth as a noiseless flake of snow,
So violet-like and still that we her presence hardly know;
But like a gleaming vessel-path, far glittering through the night,
She leaves a memory behind of soft and silvery light.
Within the crystal cavern of retirement ye find
That gem of inward radiance, her ‘meek and quiet’ mind;
Not like the flashing topaz, or the ruby's gorgeous glow,
She is a precious Amethyst, whose value well we know.
