'Twas eve. The length'ning shadows of the oak
And weeping birch swept far adown the vale;
And nought upon the hush and stillness broke,
Save the light whisp'ring of the spring-tide gale
At distance dying; and the measured stroke
Of woodmen at their toil; the feeble wail
Of some lone stock-dove, soothing, as it sank
On the lull'd ear, its melody that drank.

The sun had set; but his expiring beams
Yet linger'd in the west, and shed around
Beauty and softness o'er the wood and streams,
With coming night's first tinge of shade imbrown'd.
The light clouds mingled, brighten'd with such gleams
Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround,
That in the vision of the good descend,
And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend.

'Tis thus in solitude; but sweeter far,
By those we love, in that all-soft'ning hour,
To watch with mutual eyes each coming star,
And the faint moon-rays streaming through our bower
Of foliage, wreath'd and trembling, as the car
Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flower
And shrub that droops above us, on the sense
Seems dropping fragrance more and more intense.