No. XII.—TWILIGHT.
Now enter we within
The shadows of the ev'ning, as they wind
Around the mountains' summits, and remind
Our startled souls of sin,
Coiling, like serpent twist,
Round every thought and impulse; thus the night
Brings down its sable curtain o'er the sight,
And veils the world in mist.
The shrill-piped curlew's song
Wanders, like poesy, in distant glades;
And inexpressive notes that to eve's shades
Are fitted, pass along!
The beetle's drone is heard,
Dull, sluggish, heavy, in the dark-hued lane:
And, hark! afar, the melancholy strain
Of Echo!—twilight's bard!
At this lone hour we seek
Some quiet spot, to meditation free;—
When the Material we do not see,
Then Fancy may bespeak
Aught that she will;—the dim
And shadowy her peopled world, she finds
Forms in the darkness;—in the troublous winds
Can trace a conqueror's hymn!
Sleep has its dreams, and night
Its inspirations,—bounding, changing still,—
Imagination on some shrouded hill
Does, eagle-like, alight.
Ah! not an hour ago
Here hamlets stood, and palaces, and fields:
What man has furnished, what creation yields,
And what the earth does grow:
And now, where are they all?
Gone with the mighty, vanished with the past:
For twilight, enviously, has o'er them cast
Her black unpiercing pall,
And shut all out to sight.—
Oh! bat-eyed vision! Oh! weak mortal eyes!
Are there no mountains left—no shining skies—
No rivers clothed in light?
Are there no happy broods
Of little flowers in rustic ways remote?
No pathways to the woods? And, oh! fell thought,
No golden-foliaged woods?
Such fancies rise to sight
In night's tranquillity, where Thought is born;—
But back the laughing world will come with morn—
Life is not all a blight!
Should clouded be to-day,
Bring yesterday, and all its joys to view;—
Though no to-morrow offers to renew
Their smile—'tis not away!
'Twill dawn in after-time
On memory.—The charm of Nature's looks,
The voice of birds, the minstrelsy of brooks,
Live ever in their prime!