SONNETS.—AT TWILIGHT.

———

BY CHARLES R. CLARKE.

———

I.

The day-god lingers in the waking west,

And as I gaze upon his burning brow

My truant, willful thoughts abide no rest,

But wander forth in search of those who now,

Like me, engage perchance an idle hour

In still more idle speculation, whence,

(E’en as the case may be,) yon orb of power

Steals, begs, or borrows his magnificence: —

And as he slowly wades beyond our sight,

Methinks I hear him likened to a king,

On rosy couch retiring for the night,

Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:

O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in state

While half the world still for their coffee wait.

II.

Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,

Command my muse to plume her wayward wing

For some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no trace

Of other footsteps—be it mine to sing

Of that more blissful twilight of the soul —

Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,

When Want and Care resign their base control,

And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.

O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,

My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:

Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,

Low my Fancy whispered ’tis a vision!

And now I turn and wish that o’er my soul

Such fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.

Painted by Bonington Engraved by F. Humphrys

THE LAY OF LOVE.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine