TWILIGHT.
I would ye had not glared on me so soon,
Officious lamps!—that gild the parlour scene
With such oppressive brightness.—They were here
Whose garments like the tissue of our dreams
Steal o'er the eye, and win it from the world.
They smiled on me so sweetly, and their hands
Clasped mine, and their calm presence wooed away
The throb of grief so tenderly,—I would
That twilight to the purple peep of dawn
Had kindly lingered.—
She, who nearest hung,
Pressing my head to her meek, matron breast,
Was one who lulled me to my cradle sleep,
With such blest melodies as memory pours
Fresh from her echo-harp, when the fond heart
Asks for its buried joys.—Slow years have sown
Rank rooted herbage o'er her lowly couch
Since she arose to chant that endless song
Which hath no dissonance.—
Another form
Sat at her feet, whose brow was bright with bloom
When the cold grave shut o'er it.—It hath left
Its image every where, upon my books,
My bower of musing, and my page of thought,
And the lone altar of the secret soul.—
Would that those lips had spoken!—yet I hear
Always their ring-dove murmuring, when I tread
Our wonted shady haunts.—
