The Evening Hour.

Like the herald hope of a fairer clime,     The brightest link in the chain of time,     The youngest and loveliest child of day,     I mingle and soften each glowing ray;     Weaving together a tissue bright     Of the beams of day and the gems of night.--     I pitch my tent in the glowing west,     And receive the sun as he sinks to rest;     He flings in my lap his ruby crown,     And lays at my feet his glory down;     But ere his burning eyelids close,     His farewell glance the day-king throws     On Nature's face--till the twilight shrouds     The monarch's brow in a veil of clouds--     Oh then, by the light of mine own fair star,     I unyoke the steeds from his beamy car.     Away they start from the fiery rein,     With flashing hoofs, and flying mane,     Like meteors speeding on the wind,     They leave a glowing track behind,     Till the dark caverns of the night     Receive the heaven-born steeds of light!         While Nature broods o'er the soft repose     Of the dewy mead, and the half-shut rose,     Does not that lovely hour give birth     To thoughts more allied to heaven than earth?     When things that have been in perspective pass,     Like the sun's last rays over memory's glass;     When life's cares are forgot, when its joys are our own,     And the mild beams of faith round the future are thrown;     When all that awakened remorse or regret,     Like a stormy morn, has in splendour set;     When the sorrows of time and the hopes of heaven     Blend in the soul like the hues of even,     And the spirit looks back on this troubled scene     With a glance as bright as it ne'er had been!