  THE TWILIGHT HOUR. Slowly I dawn on the sleepless eye, Like a dreaming thought of eternity; But darkness hangs on my misty vest, Like the shade of care on the sleeper's breast; A light that is felt—but dimly seen, Like hope that hangs life and death between; And the weary watcher will sighing say, "Lord, I thank thee! 'twill soon be day;" The lingering night of pain is past, Morning breaks in the east at last. Mortal!—thou mayst see in me A type of feeble infancy,— A dim, uncertain, struggling ray, The promise of a future day! THE MORNING HOUR. Like a maid on her bridal morn I rise, With the smile on her lip and the tear in her eyes; Whilst the breeze my crimson banner unfurls, I wreathe my locks with the purest pearls; Brighter diamonds never were seen Encircling the neck of an Indian queen! I traverse the east on my glittering wing, And my smiles awake every living thing; And the twilight hour like a pilgrim gray, Follows the night on her weeping way. I raise the veil from the saffron bed, Where the young sun pillows his golden head; And his glory lights up the earth and sky. Ah, I am like that dewy prime, Ere youth hath shaken hands with time; Ere the fresh tide of life has wasted low, And discovered the hidden rocks of woe: When like the rosy beams of morn, Joy and gladness and love were born, Hope divine, of heavenly birth, And pleasure that lightens the cares of earth! THE NOONTIDE HOUR. I come like an Eastern monarch dight In my crown of beams, in my robe of light; And nature droops at my ardent gaze, And wraps the woods in a purple haze; From my fiery glance the strong man shrinks, Like a babe on the bosom of earth he sinks; "This is a glorious summer day!" Such is manhood's fiery dower, Passion's all-consuming power; Glorious, beautiful, and bright, But too dazzling to the sight! THE EVENING HOUR. Like the herald hope of a fairer clime, The brightest link in the chain of time, The youngest and loveliest child of day, I mingle and soften each glowing ray; Weaving together a tissue bright Of the beams of day and the gems of night.— I pitch my tent in the glowing west, And receive the sun as he sinks to rest; And lays at my feet his glory down; But ere his burning eyelids close, His farewell glance the day-king throws On Nature's face—till the twilight shrouds The monarch's brow in a veil of clouds— Oh then, by the light of mine own fair star, I unyoke the steeds from his beamy car. Away they start from the fiery rein, With flashing hoofs, and flying mane, Like meteors speeding on the wind, They leave a glowing track behind, Till the dark caverns of the night Receive the heaven-born steeds of light! While Nature broods o'er the soft repose Of the dewy mead, and the half-shut rose, Does not that lovely hour give birth To thoughts more allied to heaven than earth? Like the sun's last rays over memory's glass; When life's cares are forgot, when its joys are our own, And the mild beams of faith round the future are thrown; When all that awakened remorse or regret, Like a stormy morn, has in splendour set; When the sorrows of time and the hopes of heaven Blend in the soul like the hues of even, And the spirit looks back on this troubled scene With a glance as bright as it ne'er had been! NIGHT. I come, like Oblivion, to sweep away The scattered beams from the car of day: The gems which the evening has lavishly strown Light up the lamps round my ebon throne. Casting my mantle o'er Nature's face, Weaving the stars in my raven hair, As I sail through the shadowy fields of air. All the wild fancies that thought can bring Lie hid in the folds of my sable wing: Terror is mine with his phrensied crew, Fear with her cheek of marble hue, And sorrow, that shuns the eye of day, Pours out to me her plaintive lay. I am the type of that awful gloom Which involves the cradle and wraps the tomb; Chilling the soul with its mystical sway; Chasing the day-dreams of beauty away; Till man views the banner by me unfurled, As the awful veil of the unknown world; The emblem of all he fears beneath The solemn garb of the spoiler death! Born with the sun, the fair daughters of time, We silently lead to a lovelier clime, Where the day is undimmed by the shadows of night, But eternally beams from the fountain of light; Where the sorrows of time and its cares are unknown To the beautiful forms that encircle the throne |
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