AN EVENING IN FRANCE.

One star is shining in the crimson eve, And the thin texture of the faint blue sky Above is like a veil intensely drawn; Upon the spirit with a solemn weight The marvel and the mystery of eve Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm, By the vain stir and tumult of the day Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing, Like doves returning to their noted haunts. It is the solemn even-tide—the hour Of holy musings, and to us no less Of sweet refreshment for the bodily frame Than for the spirit, harassed both and worn With a long day of travel; and methinks It must have been an evening such as this, After a day of toilsome journeyings o’er, When looking out on Tiber, as we now Look out on this fair river flowing by, Together sat the saintly Monica[5], And with her, given unto her prayers, that son, The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youth Now first was running clear and bright and smooth, And solitary sitting in the niche Of a deep window held delightful talk— Such as they never could have known before, While a deep chasm, deeper than natural love Could e’er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls— Of what must be the glorious life in heaven. And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky, And on the golden west, that richest glow Of sunset to the uncreated light, Which must invest for ever those bright worlds, Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give, Its noblest pleasures, they with one consent Counted as vile, nor once to be compared— Oh! rather say not worthy to be named With what is to be looked for there; and thus Leaving behind them all things which are seen, By many a stately stair they did ascend Above the earth and all created things, The sun and starry heavens—yea, and above The mind of man, until they did attain Where light no shadow has, and life no death, Where past or future are not, nor can be, But an eternal present, and the Lamb His people feeds from indeficient streams. Then pausing for a moment, as to taste That river of delights, at length they cried, Oh! to be thus for ever, and to hear Thus in the silence of the lower world, And in the silence of all thoughts that keep Vain stir within, unutterable words, And with the splendour of His majesty, Whose seat is in the middle of the throne, Thus to be fed for ever—this must be The beatific vision, the third heaven. What we have for these passing moments known, To know the same for ever—this would be That life whereof even now we held debate. When will it be? oh when? These things they said, And for a season breathed immortal air, But then perforce returned to earth again: For the air on those first summits is too fine For our long breathing, while we yet have on Our gross investiture of mortal weeds. Yet not for nothing had their spirits flown To those high regions, bringing back at once A reconcilement with the mean things here, And a more earnest longing for what there Of nobler was by partial glimpses thus Seen through the crannies of the prison house. And she, that mother—such entire content Possessed her bosom, and her Lord had filled The orb of her desires so round and full, Had answered all her prayers for her lost son With such an overmeasure of his grace, She had no more to ask, and did not know Why she should tarry any longer here, Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt, And to these thoughts which overflowed her heart Gave thankful utterance meet; nor many days After this vision and foretaste of joy, Inherited the substance of the things Which she had seen, and entered into peace.