THE evening star will twinkle presently.
The last small bird is silent, and the bee
Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers
Are bending as if sleeping on the stem,
And all sweet living things are slumbering
In the deep hush of nature's resting time.
The faded West looks deep, as if its blue
Were searchable, and even as I look,
The twilight hath stole over it, and made
Its liquid eye apparent, and above
To the far-stretching zenith, and around,
As if they waited on her like a queen,
Have stole out th' innumerable stars
To twinkle like intelligence in heaven,
Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel?
Fit for the young affections to come out
And bathe in like an element! How well
The night is made for tenderness-so still
That the low whisper, scarcely audible,
Is heard like music, and so deeply pure
That the fond thought is chasten'd as its springs
And on the lip made holy.
Thy heart, my gentle girl!
I have won
but it hath been
When that soft eye was on me, and the love
I told beneath the evening influence
Shall be as constant as its gentle star.
ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D.D.
A SERVANT of the living God is dead!
His errand hath been well and early done,
And early hath he gone to his reward.
He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep
Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,
Nor hunger, but forever in the eye,
Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,
Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To sit down with the prophets by the clear
And crystal waters; he hath gone to list
Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk
With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host
Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow
At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold
The scroll of the Apocalypse with John,
And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back
To the last supper, and the garden prayer
With the beloved disciple. He shall hear
The story of the Incarnation told
By Simeon, and the Triune mystery
Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul.
He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar
To the remoter firmaments, and read
The order and the harmony of stars;
And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow,
In the deep pauses of archangel harps,
And, humble as the Seraphim, shall cry-
Who, by his searching, finds thee out, oh God!
There shall he meet his children who have gone Before him; and as other years roll on, And his loved flock go up to him, his hand Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb, And bring them to the living waters there.
Is it so good to die! and shall we mourn
That he is taken early to his rest?
Tell me! oh mourner for the man of God!
Shall we bewail our brother-that he died?
FLEETLY hath pass'd the year. The seasons came
Duly as they are wont-the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff-and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade.
Sunk to the noontide slumber;-we have pluck'd
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gather'd sheaf.
"God hath been very good!" "Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollow'd out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
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