MORN.

HAIL! smiling morn, that tips the hills with gold,
Whose rosy fingers ope the gates of day;
Hail! Hail!

Who the gay face of nature dost unfold;
At whose bright presence darkness flees away,
Hail! hail! hail! hail!

MORNING.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tells the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

Beattie.

MORNING'S DAWN.

THERE is a soft and fragrant hour,
Sweet, fresh, reviving in its pow'r;
"Tis when a ray

Steals from the veil of parting night,
And by its mild prelusive light
Foretells the day.

'Tis when some ling'ring stars scarce shed
O'er the mist-clad mountain's head
Their fairy beam;

Then one by one, retiring, shroud,
Dim glitt'ring through a fleecy cloud,
Their last faint gleam.

'Tis when (just waked from transient death
By some fresh zephyr's balmy breath),
Th' unfolding rose
Sheds on the air its rich perfume,
While every bud with deeper bloom
And beauty glows.

'Tis when fond nature (genial power!)
Weeps o'er each drooping night-closed flower,
While softly fly

Those doubtful mists, that leave to view
Each glowing scene of various hue
That charms the eye.

Nor day, nor night, this hour can claim,
Nor moonlight ray, nor noontide beam,
Does it betray;

But fresh, reviving, dewy, sweet,
It hastes the glowing hours to meet
Of rising day.

EVENING.

Lady Morgan.

How sweet the fall of eve,

When in the glowing west

The sun hath sunk to rest,

Yet shining footprints on the air doth leave;
While through the deep'ning twilight, soft and slow,
The fragrant evening breezes come and go!

How beautiful, when light

Hath fled; and leaf and stream

Rest in a quiet dream,

Within the curtaining shadows of the night;
While troops of stars look down with dewy rays,
And flowers droop their eyes beneath their gaze.

How silent is the air!

Who would not at such shrine

To holier thoughts incline?

The ever-tranquil night was made for prayer.
On the hush'd Earth, from the o'erarching sky,
Doth not a solemn benediction lie?

And when the hours of night
Have slowly roll'd away,

And the victorious day

Athwart the kindling air speeds arrowy light,
How gloriously, as in a second birth,

Awake to radiant life the heavens and earth!

Anna Blackwell.

EVENING.

How like a tender mother,

With loving thoughts beguil'd,
Fond nature seems to lull to rest
Each faint and weary child!
Drawing the curtain tenderly,
Affectionate and mild.

Hark! to the gentle lullaby,

That through the trees is creeping,
Those sleepy trees that nod their heads,
Ere the moon as yet comes peeping,
Like a tender nurse, to see if all

Her little ones are sleeping.

One little flutt'ring bird,

Like a child in a dream of pain,

Has chirp'd and started

up,

Then nestled down again,

Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest,

Are as like as any twain.

Charlotte Young.

TWILIGHT.

AVE MARIA! blessed be the hour,

The time, the clime, the spot, when I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft;
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft;
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with

prayer.

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.

Byron.

EVENING.

CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose

Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;

Look up a second time, and, one by one,

You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight;
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers.

Wordsworth.

EVENING.

Now eve descends in meek array,
More welcome than the gaudy day;
The clouds forsake the upper sky,
To settle on some mountain high;

Or round the sunset's crimson close
In variegated piles repose.

Faint, more faint, and fainter still,
Stealing on o'er vale and hill,

The chimes from distant turret gray
Into silence fade away.

The hamlet swarms with rustic poor,
At gossip by the cottage-door;
Guided by little urchin strong,
Homeward creeps the team along ;
The children, heedless to be seen,
Bathe in the pond upon the green;
Whence along their beaten track
March the geese in order back.
From the cot beside the oak
Mounts a slender thread of smoke,
Telling with what thrifty care

Its two old dames their meal prepare;
While from open lattice nigh
Notes of village harmony,
Meeting in a cadence clear,
Catch the idly listening ear.

Now then the pensive task be mine,
As into dusk the tints decline,
In meditative mood to stray
Along some brier-scented way;
Where, perch'd beside her leafy nest,
The linnet trills her young to rest.
There let me muse, all else forgot,
On the strange tide of human lot;
How brief the measure of our day;
On death's approach, on life's decay;
On former times, on future things;
On all our vain imaginings ;-
Till over fading lawn and mead
Their silver net the dews have spread;
And the pale glow-worm shows her light,
To guide me home at fall of night.

Caswall.