TO B. P. SHILLABER.

When lingering Day at last recedes from sight, And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place, Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light, 'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight Through oft-frequented avenues of space To those dear souls—the dearest of the race— Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height. From this old mountain-top I come to you, My large souled trusted friend of many a year, With birthday greetings of the roseate hue Left by a perfect Day just lingering here. Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true, And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!