EVENING THOUGHTS.
Come to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love
The hour of musing. Come, before the brow
Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars
Look from their casement. 'Mid that hush of soul
Music from viewless harps shall visit thee,
Such as thou never heard'st amid the din
Of earth's coarse enginery, by toil and care
Urged on, without reprieve. Ah! kneel and catch
That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought
Above the jarring of this time-worn world,
And give the key-tone of that victor-song
Which plucks the sting from death.
How closely wrapt
In quiet slumber are all things around!
The vine-leaf, and the willow-fringe stir not,
Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird,
Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon,
Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think
To be alone?—In fellowship more close
Than man with man, pure spirits hover near
Prompting to high communion with the Source
Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul!
For 'tis a holy pleasure thus to find
Its melody of musing so allied
To pure devotion. Give thy prayer a voice;
Claiming Heaven's blessing on these sacred hours
Which in the world's warped balance weighed, might yield
But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave
Such robes as angels wear, and thou shalt taste
In their dear, deep, entrancing solitude,
Such sweet society,—that thou shalt leave
"Signet and staff," as pledges of return.