 | The national jubilee, and other miscellaneous poems |  |
EVENING.
The Muse to blithesome morn has strung
Her harp—of sultry noon has sung—
To bid adieu to lingering day,
She now attempts an evening lay.
Her harp—of sultry noon has sung—
To bid adieu to lingering day,
She now attempts an evening lay.
The softening dews begin to fall,
The tender vines to life, recall;
The flowers, that droop'd though sick at heart,
Revive, and to the vales impart
A sweetness that embalms the air,
Inviting angel-spirits there.
The sweetest songsters of the grove,
Warble their soften'd notes of love;
And every bird on quivering spay,
With mellow'd strains concludes the day.
The tender vines to life, recall;
The flowers, that droop'd though sick at heart,
Revive, and to the vales impart
A sweetness that embalms the air,
Inviting angel-spirits there.
The sweetest songsters of the grove,
Warble their soften'd notes of love;
And every bird on quivering spay,
With mellow'd strains concludes the day.
The hen retiring with her brood—
The bullet and her sisterhood,
With gentle steppings slow pursue
Their gallant lord with reverence due,
Who, oft with eye obliqely bent,
Watches—like centinel intent,
His scouting foe—the element
To mark the hawk, and give the sound,
And stand and bold defend the ground;
Then onward with his charge he'd march,
While frequent he, his neck, would arch,
And proud his voice of honor swell,
And bid the setting sun farewell.
The bullet and her sisterhood,
25
Their gallant lord with reverence due,
Who, oft with eye obliqely bent,
Watches—like centinel intent,
His scouting foe—the element
To mark the hawk, and give the sound,
And stand and bold defend the ground;
Then onward with his charge he'd march,
While frequent he, his neck, would arch,
And proud his voice of honor swell,
And bid the setting sun farewell.
The hum of bees, and buzz of flies—
The frog with hoarse obstreperous cries—
The oxen homeward wending slow—
The deep, concussive, bellowing low—
The bleating lambs on sunset-hills—
The soothing sounds of lapsing rills,
Find holy entrance to the heart,
That bids its every care depart.
The frog with hoarse obstreperous cries—
The oxen homeward wending slow—
The deep, concussive, bellowing low—
The bleating lambs on sunset-hills—
The soothing sounds of lapsing rills,
Find holy entrance to the heart,
That bids its every care depart.
A stillness sacred to the soul,
Soothes—lulls each passion in control,
Save that which lifts the thoughts sublime,
Beyond the narrow glimpse of time,
To muse on things above the sphere,
Where angel-worshippers appear
With cencers burning with a flame,
More pure than that which speedful came
And lit the sacrifice, when pray'd
Elijah—and his foes dismay'd.
Soothes—lulls each passion in control,
Save that which lifts the thoughts sublime,
Beyond the narrow glimpse of time,
To muse on things above the sphere,
Where angel-worshippers appear
With cencers burning with a flame,
More pure than that which speedful came
And lit the sacrifice, when pray'd
Elijah—and his foes dismay'd.
26
In the loose clouds what beauties play,
Touch'd with the sun's departing ray,
As through the mountain glade he shines,
And deeper from the view declines!
No pencil can their fashion trace,
Their loveliness combin'd with grace—
Their colour purer than each gem,
That shines on nature's diadem—
Topaz and rubies, emeralds bright—
The diamond, jasper, chrysolite—
With every softening shade between
The violet, orange, azure, green.
Touch'd with the sun's departing ray,
As through the mountain glade he shines,
And deeper from the view declines!
No pencil can their fashion trace,
Their loveliness combin'd with grace—
Their colour purer than each gem,
That shines on nature's diadem—
Topaz and rubies, emeralds bright—
The diamond, jasper, chrysolite—
With every softening shade between
The violet, orange, azure, green.
Now like huge mountains pil'd on high,
They stretch along the western sky;
Sudden they change to gilded spires,
That seem to flash with golden fires.
Opposing armies crowd the spheres,
With flaming shields and glittering spears,
Their splendid banners waving high,
In all the pomp of chivalry;
And ruin'd walls and mouldering towers,
Soon change to love's inviting bowers.
They stretch along the western sky;
Sudden they change to gilded spires,
That seem to flash with golden fires.
Opposing armies crowd the spheres,
With flaming shields and glittering spears,
Their splendid banners waving high,
In all the pomp of chivalry;
And ruin'd walls and mouldering towers,
Soon change to love's inviting bowers.
The reaper homeward bends his way,
Dismiss'd the labours of the day.
His wife advances with a smile,
As he o'erclimbs the well-known stile;
His glad return his children bless,
And round him with affection press;
Jealous, who first his kiss, shall seize,
Raptur'd in holy sympathies:
The youngest prattling in his arms,
Pours in his heart celestial balms,
Another, with her infant hand,
Circles his finger like a band,
On which, from step to step she swings,
While blithe her tongue unconscious sings.
The eldest trips it on before,
Gazing his features whistful o'er—
Or with a wild endearing glee,
Laughing, impatient clasps his knee,
And clogs him in his movement forth—
But all is such a scene of mirth,
The parent cannot feel to chide,
While throbs his heart with lofty pride,
That they, a future day, will be
His shield, his staff, his treasury,
From whence, in age, fresh fruits he'll gather,
Till he shall rest from toils forever.
Dismiss'd the labours of the day.
His wife advances with a smile,
As he o'erclimbs the well-known stile;
His glad return his children bless,
And round him with affection press;
27
Raptur'd in holy sympathies:
The youngest prattling in his arms,
Pours in his heart celestial balms,
Another, with her infant hand,
Circles his finger like a band,
On which, from step to step she swings,
While blithe her tongue unconscious sings.
The eldest trips it on before,
Gazing his features whistful o'er—
Or with a wild endearing glee,
Laughing, impatient clasps his knee,
And clogs him in his movement forth—
But all is such a scene of mirth,
The parent cannot feel to chide,
While throbs his heart with lofty pride,
That they, a future day, will be
His shield, his staff, his treasury,
From whence, in age, fresh fruits he'll gather,
Till he shall rest from toils forever.
| The national jubilee, and other miscellaneous poems | |