The roses of the spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending, Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune,. Like thine, sweet friend! oh, dearer this to m ARY ALEXANDER SMITIL TWILIGHT. There is an evening twilight of the heart We gaze upon them as they melt away, But Hope is 'round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye, And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; |