But this is past, and dies the cloudless day.
How solemnly and calm the evening falls
Around the rural scene! One burning bar
Along the shadowy western hill-top flames,
And, like the blazing iron upon an anvil,
Sinks to a cooler red, and darkly fades,
Leaving the vale to twilight. Charmed hour!
Now fall the dews, of which the blossoms drink
Deep opiate draughts, till, nodding on their stems,
Within their scented mantles folded close,
They dream till morn. The sounds of day are done
Innumerous tongues, which only wake at eve,
Resume, till night is filled with various notes
Which start the inmost fancy into flight,
Touching the pleasing chords of melancholy,
Until the heart holds sympathy, perforce,
With all the dusk invisible. Above,
The dreary night-hawk wheels on mournful wings,
Like some doomed spirit seeking for its mate,
And pours his bitter wail. Within the deep
Impenetrable sorrow of the woods,
Like one in weeds, with knotted chords of grief
Scourging his heart until it shrieks its wo,
The whip-poor-will lifts up its direful voice.
While, like a demon jeering at their pain,
The owl makes answer with his scornful laugh.
These are sad sounds; and unto Amy's heart—
Although her lover's arm is at her waist,
While their slow feet together brush the path,
Sweeping the shadowy pasture near the grove—
They have a voice prophetic which half drowns
The joy it is her spirit's wont to hear;
And on the wayside grass, methinks, unseen,
One tear-drop more than pensive evening weeps
Is shed. They tell us angels, good and ill,
Attend our steps, to guide or to mislead;
If such be true, with what imploring words,
And clasped hands, and piteous gaze of eyes,
The one oft speaks that would persuade aright,
And in the hour by us securest deemed
Whispers its fears and warns; the while the other
With smiles assuring safety, strews the path
With flowers which lead but to a field of thorns!
If this indeed be true, the instinctive tear,
The shudder, or each inward faint recoil,
Springing we know not whence, should be a voice
To stay the swiftest step—should be a bolt
Transfixing where we stand—a giant rock
Rising, like sudden gates of adamant,
To bar our further course! Alas! too oft,
We lay our hand on the good angel's lip,
And murmur “Peace,” whence peace alone can flow;
And list the alluring tongue, whose sweeter words
Pour in the soul the airs which yet shall wake
The howling storm of discord. “Take this chain”—
So speaks a voice, the while a heated cheek
Flames at her own—“and wear it for my sake.”
Then, with a smile, he drops it on her neck;
While in her hand a locket, like an ember,
Glows as the wide moon stares above the east—
Stares, like a ghost, across the maiden's shoulder,
Gazing with Amy on the lover's picture.
Long time she looks, and then, with trembling care,
Within her bosom hides the image dear;
Where on her breast with wide and stolid eyes,
It lies and warms against her beating heart,
Swaying to each emotion, while the moon
A moment glides behind a fleecy vapour,
And floods it into whiteness like a shroud.
Olivia, with her little taper's light,
Looks from her chamber window to the east—
Looks long with mingled feelings, chiefly hope;
And when a star aslant the zenith drops,
A sigh from out her heart responds, and then
A vision of her gentle friend and lover
Rises; and now amid the Mayday groups,
She once more watches where the reeling dance
Whirls their light forms along, from sun to shade
So swift is thought that, ere the meteor line
Has faded but a moment from across
The rising constellation, in her breast
The name of Arthur questions every star;
What time each lifts its silvery brow to sight,
And gazes o'er th' horizon's woody bar;—
What news it brings from out the Orient,
What tidings it hath carried in its heart,
Which not the loud pervading sea could drown,
Or time or distance mar? What words of love,
What longing westward looks, from those dear lips
And faithful eyes, of one who travels far?
And when the pillow holds her golden hair.
She hears the happiest sounds which charm the night;
But chiefly, from afar, the flashing stream
Which rustles o'er the breastwork at the mill
With ceaseless music. Often—oh, how oft—
By that same sound hath Arthur's ear been soothed
Till slumber weighed with melody his lids!
And sympathizing with the sacred vision
Her fancy sees, the while his name in prayer
Passes, and yet seems lingering on her lips.
A gentle dream before her spirit steals,
Closing the doors of sleep upon her soul.