EVENING.

A SKETCH.

The holy time is quiet as a Nun,
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!

'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 height of fear,
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 cell;-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 darkly, closely twined, 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 curse the spell of loveliness

That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so

It stirred the stream of thought below.

STANZAS.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

I.

YES! Pride of soul shall nerve me now,

To think of thee no more;

And coldness steel the heart and brow

That passion swayed before!

Think'st thou that I will share thy breast,

Whilst dwells a fondlier cherished guest

Deep in its inmost core?

No;-by my hopes of Heaven! I'll be

ALL-ALL-or nothing unto thee!

II.

Thy hand hath oft been clasped in mine,

Fondly, since first we met;

My lip hath e'en been pressed to thineIn greeting wild;-but yet,

Lightly avails it, now, to tell

Of moments only loved too well—

Joys I would fain forget,

Since MEMORY's star can ill controul

The moonless midnight of my soul!

III.

But I'll reproach thee not ;-Farewell!
Whilst yet I'm somewhat free,
'Twere better far to break the spell

That binds my soul to thee,

Than wait till Time each pulse shall lend

A strength that will not let it bend

To Reason's stern decree:

Since Fate hath willed that we must part,

"Twere better now to brave the smart.