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OME, Evening, once again, season of peace,
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,

With matron step slow moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed

In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beast, the other charged for man

With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:

Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid,

Like homely-featured Night, of clust'ring gems;

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A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.
Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm,
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:

And, whether I devote thy gentle hours

To books, to music, or the poet's toil;

To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit:

Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,
When they command whom man was born to please
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.

COWPER.

TO NIGHT.

WIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight,

Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,

Kiss her until she be wearied out,

TO NIGHT.

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand—
Come, long sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and trec,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,

Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Would'st thou me ?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,

Shall I nestle near thy side?

Would'st thou me? And I replied,
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-

Sleep will come when thou art fled;

Of neither would I ask the boon

I ask of thee, beloved Night

Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

SHELLEY.

17

18

SONG OF THE PIXIES.

SONG OF THE PIXIES.

HEN Evening's dusky car,

Crowned with her dewy star,

Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight;

On leaves of aspen trees

We tremble to the breeze,

Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight.

Or haply at the visionary hour,

Along our wildly bowered sequestered walk,

We listen to the enamoured rustics talk;

Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast,

Where young-eyed Loves have hid their turtle nest;
Or, guide of soul-subduing power,

The glance, that from the half-confessing eye
Darts the fond question, or the soft reply.

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank;
Or, silent sandaled, pay our defter court,
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale,
Where, wearied with his flower-caressing sport,
Supine he slumbers on a violet bank;
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam,
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream;
Or where his wave, with loud, unquiet song,
Dashed o'er the rocky channel, froths along;
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest,
The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.

COLERIDGE.

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