On my lips a song!




AN EVENING SCENE.


How still and calm! what fairer scene e'er met
The eye of mortal short of Paradise?
The quiet lake is like a mirror set
In richest green where sunset loves to see
Itself arrayed in crimson, pink and gold.
And e'en the proud old mountain bows his head
Shaggy with hemlocks, and appears well pleased
To view so grand a form reflected there.
Hark! o'er the polished surface how the loons
Call to each other, waking echoes wild
From crag and cliff, and waking in my heart
Sweet memories of other days and years
When health was on my cheek, and hope and love
O'er all the future wove one iris bright.
Ah, little prophets, do you then predict
A rainy morrow? By yon crimson west
I doubt your warnings; so in truth it seems
Does yonder farmer who, with shouldered scythe
From meadows fragrant with the new-mown hay,
Goes whistling homeward, glad to seek repose
Until another sun shall call him forth,
To gather into barns the winter's store