Evening Solace.

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed;-- The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, And nights in rosy riot fly, While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion, The memory of the Past may die.

But there are hours of lonely musing, Such as in evening silence come, When, soft as birds their pinions closing, The heart’s best feelings gather home. Then in our souls there seems to languish A tender grief that is not woe; And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions, Float softly back--a faded dream; Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations, The tale of others’ sufferings seem. Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding, How longs it for that time to be, When, through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, On evening shade and loneliness; And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, Feel no untold and strange distress-- Only a deeper impulse given By lonely hour and darkened room, To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven Seeking a life and world to come.

STANZAS.

If thou be in a lonely place, If one hour’s calm be thine, As Evening bends her placid face O’er this sweet day’s decline; If all the earth and all the heaven Now look serene to thee, As o’er them shuts the summer even, One moment--think of me!

Pause, in the lane, returning home; ‘Tis dusk, it will be still: Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom Its breezeless boughs will fill. Look at that soft and golden light, High in the unclouded sky; Watch the last bird’s belated flight, As it flits silent by.

Hark! for a sound upon the wind, A step, a voice, a sigh; If all be still, then yield thy mind, Unchecked, to memory. If thy love were like mine, how blest That twilight hour would seem, When, back from the regretted Past, Returned our early dream!

If thy love were like mine, how wild Thy longings, even to pain, For sunset soft, and moonlight mild, To bring that hour again! But oft, when in thine arms I lay, I’ve seen thy dark eyes shine, And deeply felt their changeful ray Spoke other love than mine.

My love is almost anguish now, It beats so strong and true; ‘Twere rapture, could I deem that thou Such anguish ever knew. I have been but thy transient flower, Thou wert my god divine; Till checked by death’s congealing power, This heart must throb for thine.

And well my dying hour were blest, If life’s expiring breath Should pass, as thy lips gently prest My forehead cold in death; And sound my sleep would be, and sweet, Beneath the churchyard tree, If sometimes in thy heart should beat One pulse, still true to me.

PARTING.

There’s no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There’s such a thing as keeping A remembrance in one’s heart:

There’s such a thing as dwelling On the thought ourselves have nursed, And with scorn and courage telling The world to do its worst.

We’ll not let its follies grieve us, We’ll just take them as they come; And then every day will leave us A merry laugh for home.

When we’ve left each friend and brother, When we’re parted wide and far, We will think of one another, As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us, Every pleasant sight beneath, We’ll connect with those that love us, Whom we truly love till death!

In the evening, when we’re sitting By the fire, perchance alone, Then shall heart with warm heart meeting, Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us, Which cold human hands have wrought, And where none shall dare restrain us We can meet again, in thought.

So there’s no use in weeping, Bear a cheerful spirit still; Never doubt that Fate is keeping Future good for present ill!