LINES.

———

BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

———

The sunset’s sweet and holy blush

Is imaged in the sleeping stream,

All nature’s deep and solemn hush

Is like the silence of a dream;

And peace seems brooding like a dove

O’er scenes to musing spirits dear —

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

The myriad flowers of every hue

Are sinking to their evening rest,

Each with a timid drop of dew

Soft folded to its sleeping breast

The birds within yon silent grove

Are dreaming that the spring is near —

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

On yon white cloud the night-wind furls

Its lone and dewy wing to sleep,

And the sweet stars look out like pearls

Through the clear waves of heaven’s blue deep;

The pale mists float around, above,

Like spirits of a holier sphere —

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

The pale full moon, in silent pride,

O’er yon dark wood is rising now,

As lovely as when by thy side

I saw it shining on thy brow;

It lights the dew-drops of the grove

As hope’s bright smile lights beauty’s tear —

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

Ah! as I muse, a strange, wild thrill

Steals o’er the fibres of my frame —

A gentle presence seems to fill

My heart with love and life and flame;

I feel thy spirit round me move,

I know thy soul is hovering near —

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I am blest, for thou art here.