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EVENING STANZAS.
Where walks by day the peaceful Eve?
In Heaven's own gardens, believe,
She gathers the delight
Which, hoarded up from hour to hour
In her sweet breast, the faithful Power
Brings down to earth at night.
Come, gentle Eve! She will not hear:
The distant fields are bold and clear,
Though from the sultry west
The clouds their progress have begun,
And with poised orb the crimson sun
Is waiting for his rest.
She heard—she comes!—anear, afar!
Already her first twinkling star
Is caught among the trees;
And odours which the day confined
Are loading with a grateful mind
Her liberating breeze.
