At Eventide.

The day fades fast;     And backward ebbs the tide of light     From the far hills in billows bright,         Scattering foam, as they sweep past,     O'er the low clouds that bank the sky,     And barrier day off solemnly.             Above the land     Grey shadows stretch out, still and cold,     Flinging o'er water, wood, and wold,         Mysterious shapes, whose ghastly hand         Presses down sorrow on the heart,     And silence on the lips that part.             The dew-mist broods     Heavy and low o'er field and fen,     Like gloom above the souls of men;         And through the forest solitudes     The fitful night-wind rustles by,     Breathing many a wailing sigh--             O Day! O Life!     Ending in gloom together here--     Though not one star of Hope appear,         Still through the cold bleak Future gaze,         That mocks thee with its murky haze;     Soon morn shall end the doubt, the strife,         And give unto thy weeping eyes         The far night-guarded Paradise!