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There is perhaps not in this world a scene so delightful as to walk by the side of a river, in a summer eve, when not a breeze disturbs the atmosphere, and the moon shines bright from an unclouded sky, while the evening star is seen in the extreme horizon, and seems to pour a flood of light and joy on objects below its smiling rays, while the moon holds forth her joyous journey along the vale, and cheers every flower with exquisite harmony and love, and the dew-drop suspended from the hawthorn blossom that decks the neighbouring woods contiguous to the margin of the river, or gently kiss the lily's breast, as the fond mother clasps her darling babe to her heart, where affections glow, kind and indulgent as pity's tears that are shed upon the head of the destitute and forlorn. The workers return to their night's repose, while the black-bird and mellow thrush prolong and chaunt their evening hymn to nature―not only nature, but the Architect of nature, by the side of the embankment of smooth-running Kelvin, while primroses, daisies, forget-me-not, and the queen of the meadow, grace with beauty, unrivalled by art, its verdant banks.
O love ! O love is like the skies
When robed with silver light;
While jasper seas in splendour vies,
And bless the golden night.
O love ! O love is like the spring
When gentle breezes blow:
