Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears
Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears;
No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms,
Thy breast their death-bed, coffin'd in thine arms.

Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar,
Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star,
Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge,
And feeding pike starts from the water's edge,
Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill
Wetting, that drip upon the water still;
And heron, as resounds the trodden shore,
Shoots upward, darting his long neck before.

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of the night; 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the West's proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una shining on her gloomy way,

The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray;

Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and small,
Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall,
Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale
Tracking the fitful motions of the gale.

With restless interchange at once the bright
Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light.
No favour'd eye was e'er allow'd to gaze
On lovelier spectacle in faery days;

When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase,
Brushing with lucid wands the water's face;
While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps,
Charm'd the tall circle of th' enchanted steeps.
The lights are vanished from the watery plains:
No wreck of all the pageantry remains.
Unheeded night has overcome the vales:
On the dark earth the baffled vision fails;
The latest lingerer of the forest train,
The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain;
Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more,
Lost in the thicken'd darkness, glimmers hoar;
And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere,
Like a black wall, the mountain steeps appear.
- Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel
A sympathetic twilight slowly steal,

And ever, as we fondly muse, we find

The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind,
Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay!
Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away:

Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains;

Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains.

The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steaming rivulet's bed, From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with boding note the rising moon, Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground, And pouring deeper blue to Æther's bound; And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold.

See, o'er the eastern hill, where darkness broods
O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods;
Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace,
She lifts in silence up her lovely face;
Above the gloomy valley flings her light,

Far to the western slopes with hamlets white;
And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew,
To the green corn of summer autumn's hue.

Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the Moon's own morn;

'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer
The weary hills, impervious, blackening near;
-Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while
On darling spots remote her tempting smile.

!

-Ev'n now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) Creep hush'd into the tranquil breast of Death.

But now the clear-bright Moon her zenith gains, And rimy without speck extend the plains; The deepest dell the mountain's front displays, Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue "faint silvery threads" divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; The scene is waken'd, yet its peace unbroke, By silver'd wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke,

That, o'er the ruins of the fallen wood,

Steal down the hills, and spread along the flood.

The song of mountain streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. All air is, as the sleeping water, still,

List'ning the aëreal music of the hill,

Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep,
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep,
Soon followed by his hollow-parting oar,
And echoed hoof approaching the far shore;
Sound of closed gate, across the water borne,
Hurrying the feeding hare through rustling corn;
The tremulous sob of the complaining owl;
And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl;
The distant forge's swinging thump profound;
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound.