THOUGHTS AT EVENTIDE.

"I hold it true, with one who sings To one clear lute of divers tunes. That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things."—TENNYSON

Lo! the sunset fire is burning in the roseate sky of evening Where grand in dying glory sinks the god of day to rest And wide o'er the dewy meadows lie the golden lights and shadows, Like gleams that come to cheer us from the regions the blest! Slow the fiery orb is sinking down below the purple mountains; Still the splendour of his radiance lingers round us for a while; And the peaceful country bowers, and the stately run towers, Are rejoicing in the beauty of the glad, refulgent smiles.

From the trees and from the meadows the bird-song wild and tender, In sweet and mingled chorus, like vesper songs, arise With the evening zephyrs blending, on their airy wings ascending, Like anthems of thanksgiving they are ringing thro' the skies.

The children's happy voices from the village playground stealing, With the cadence of their laughter, come floating through the air; And the face of Nature smiling, every thought of care beguiling, Soothes my restless soul to musing in the twilight calm and fair,—

Keeps my soul in peaceful musing, 'mid the tranquil summer gloaming, When the cares of day are ended, and its labours all are done; When the Dove of Peace is stealing o'er the valleys, bringing healing On her white wings to the weary, with the rest that they have won.

Here let me sit and ponder on life's long and varied story, On the things that are, and have been, and the times that are to be; Of the past and of the present, of the darksome days and pleasant, And the future years, still hidden, that are kept in store for me.

But, the past—should I deplore it? All my longing can't restore it; Still it lies beyond my reaching, to come back to me no more; It is right to keep and cherish, or to let its memory perish, Like a dream to be forgotten, when the hours of sleep are o'er?

Like a dream to be forgotten, like a phantom, a delusion That but lured away our moments with its subtle, witching powers, Till it sinks our souls in sadness with the dreams of gladness, And the thoughts of vanished pleasures that can ne'er again be ours.

Let me cease this idle longing for the days that have departed, It is worse than useless wishing for a light grown dim and dead: For joy so lovely seeming, when we clasp them in our dreaming, And know we must awaken and remember all is fled.

Let past failures be our beacon through the breakers spread around us, To show where danger meets us on life's rough and troubled main— Where earth's joys like billows meeting, on the rock's care are beating, And we see them dashed and shattered where they can not rise again.

Let me wake, and cease repining; let me learn life's sternest lesson— Joys when born of earth are earthy, and must therefore fade and die; Let me feel new knowledge glowing, on my opening eye bestowing The experience that will lead me to a fairer, by-and-by.

'Tis our past has made our present, so our present makes our future, Let us work, and cease of wishing—let us do, not dream through life; Ever mindful, never straying, with our earnest hearts still praying For the guerdon of the worker, and the winner in the strife.