Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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EVENING. |
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
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EVENING.
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration!
WORDSWORTH.
Breathless with adoration!
WORDSWORTH.
'Tis evening: on Abruzzo's hill
The summer sun is lingering still,
As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair, one can but look and grieve
To think that like a lovely dream,
A few brief, fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er!
The summer sun is lingering still,
As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair, one can but look and grieve
To think that like a lovely dream,
A few brief, fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er!
'Tis evening: and a general hush
Prevails, save when the mountain spring
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;—
Or when from Corno's brow severe
The echoes of its convent bell
Come wafted on the far-off ear,
With soft and diapason swell:
But sounds so wildly sweet as they,
Ah, who would ever wish away!
Prevails, save when the mountain spring
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;—
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The echoes of its convent bell
Come wafted on the far-off ear,
With soft and diapason swell:
But sounds so wildly sweet as they,
Ah, who would ever wish away!
Yet there are seasons when the soul,
'Rapt in some dear delicious dream,
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,
What rays of beauty round it beam,
Shuts up its inmost depths, lest aught
However wondrous, wild, or fair,
Shine in, and interrupt the thought,
The one deep thought that centres there.
'Rapt in some dear delicious dream,
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,
What rays of beauty round it beam,
Shuts up its inmost depths, lest aught
However wondrous, wild, or fair,
Shine in, and interrupt the thought,
The one deep thought that centres there.
'Though with the passionate sense so shrined
And canonized, the hues of grief
Perchance be closely intertwined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief!
And could the breathing scene impart
A charm to make its sadness less,
'Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And loathe the spell of loveliness
That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so
It stirred the stream of thought below.
And canonized, the hues of grief
Perchance be closely intertwined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief!
And could the breathing scene impart
A charm to make its sadness less,
'Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And loathe the spell of loveliness
That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so
It stirred the stream of thought below.
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