Silent, mournful, am I standing, gazing from the window pane,
Dimmed and blurred with heavy plashes of the fast descending
rain,
While thoughts chiming with the hour my weary brain are passing
through,
Till the shadows of the evening on my brow are mirrored too.

Rise, although uncalled, within me, memories of the distant past,
Of the dreams, the hopes, the fancies, that round life sweet
sunshine cast;
Whilst the moan of winds and waters, with a strange, mysterious
art,
Seem to awaken drear forebodings in the listening gazer's heart.

Ah! it needs yon pleasant tapers with enlivening, home-like ray,
And the sound of voices sharing, each in turn, in converse gay,
And the flash of fire-light, making happy faces still more glad,
To dispel the mournful thoughts that make the evening hour so
sad.

Turning from this lonely musing, wilful nursing of dark care,
I will join the joyous circle of the dear ones gathered there,
Who with smiles will greet my advent, and in that delightful room
Shake aside the dreary shadows of this scene of autumn gloom.




SISTER M. B.'S ARRIVAL IN MONTREAL, 1654.