Wild minstrels of Nature, whose poet-fire
Rings out through her solitudes, wild and grand.
Let your spirit rest on my feeble lyre,
And I'll chain it there with a willing hand.
And when Night hangs her myriad star-lamps shine
Let me blend her notes with your wondrous chord.




THOUGHTS AT EVENTIDE.


"I hold it true, with one who sings
To one clear lute of divers tunes.
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."--TENNYSON

Lo! the sunset fire is burning in the roseate sky of evening
Where grand in dying glory sinks the god of day to rest
And wide o'er the dewy meadows lie the golden lights and
shadows,
Like gleams that come to cheer us from the regions the
blest!
Slow the fiery orb is sinking down below the purple
mountains;
Still the splendour of his radiance lingers round us for a
while;
And the peaceful country bowers, and the stately run towers,