University of Virginia Library

EVENING THOUGHTS.

From their wild fiery strength my thoughts subside
In these soft hours of tranquil Eventide;—
Deeper and deeper grows the spreading shade,
Though the fair clouds are brightly still arrayed
In those rich tints they ne'er again shall wear,
When sets that Sun which makes them now so fair;
Day shall bequeathe no gem gifts to the Night—
She hath her own proud jewels deep and bright!
I gaze with longing and admiring gaze
Upon those light clouds in their ruddy blaze,
Till, when I turn away at length mine eyes,
The darkened Earth seems coloured like the skies,
With all its lengthening shades of spreading gloom,
And wears the lustre of a living bloom!
So when the eye, the Vision-lighted eye,
Turns inwardly to see the Pageantry
And glorious show of Fancy's Pomp—it views,
Even when 'tis turned away—those beauteous hues,
Stamped on Reality's hard forms, and cold,
And seemeth still that glory to behold!
And this soft hour of lovely Even seems
The very hour of Visions and of dreams
Not undelightful—though in sooth they wear
An almost mournful tinge—yet soft and fair,
(Not like the Dreams that round young Morning's throne
Blaze out in dazzling splendours—broad—full blown),
These floating Visions that serenely rise
Before the unslumbering and uncurtained eyes—
They seem with one faint hue of Beauty dyed,
And yet not wholly undiversified;
Each hath some separate charm—some diff'ring grace,
Like the fair stars that throng the depths of space,
Which though at first with their faint silvery flame
They seem to be unvaringly the same,
Prove to the closer watch, the keener eye,
Marked by some delicate diversity!
My thoughts from their wild fiery strength subside
In these calm hours of peaceful Eventide,
For still a wild and fiery Strength have they,
Though bowed by Disappointment and Dismay;
Though Sorrow's cold Seal on my Soul is set,
Her cold, cold Seal—(and my dimmed eyes are wet
With many tears)—still they rejoicing feel
A flush of Life—and power—despite that seal,
Despite those tears—and draw from Nature's store
Treasures that make them worship and adore!
Oh! in this World are glorious Pleasures old,
Unfathomable—hidden, and untold—
Unto the lip's weak language still unknown,
Which the Heart makes and keeps still, all its own.
Lyre of the Soul!—in this dull World below,
The rich Strength of thy Strains none, none can know.
The Bird that singeth in the echoing woods,
Mingling its joy with joy of founts and floods,
And leaves and winds—in all their stirring play,
Sings not for Stranger Ears—by night or day,
But sings unto itself—and is at once—
Since it nor needs assistance nor response—
Its own orchestra—its own audience too—
While loud it chaunts its Songs of Triumph through.
Lyre of the Soul! so thine immortal Strains
(The mighty language of thy Joys and Pains)
Are not for Stranger senses uttered—No!
Unto thyself doth thy deep Music flow!
Thy glorious Minstrelsy—until that time
When Heaven shall echo to its sounds sublime,
My thoughts! from your tempestuous strength and pride,
In these soft dreamy hours of Eve subside,
And gently float along in musing strain,
Bound each to each, by Feeling's softest chain!