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| THE PEACEFUL evening breathes her balmy store; | |
| The playful school-boy swanton o’er the green; | |
| Where spreading poplars shade the cottage door, | |
| The villagers in rustic joy convene. | |
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| Amid the secret windings of the wood, | 5 |
| With solemn meditation let me stray; | |
| This is the hour when, to the wise and good, | |
| The heavenly maid repays the toils of day. | |
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| The river murmurs, and the breathing gale | |
| Whispers the gently-waving boughs among; | 10 |
| The star of evening glimmers o’er the dale, | |
| And leads the silent host of heaven along. | |
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| How bright, emerging o’er yon broom-clad height, | |
| The silver empress of the night appears! | |
| Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light, | 15 |
| And faintly in its breast the woodland bears. | |
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| The waters, tumbling o’er their rocky bed, | |
| Solemn and constant, from yon dell resound; | |
| The lonely hearths blaze o’er the distant glade; | |
| The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground. | 20 |
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| August and hoary, o’er the sloping dale | |
| The Gothic abbey rears its sculptured towers; | |
| Dull through the roofs resounds the whistling gale; | |
| Dark solitude among the pillars lowers. | |
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| Where yon old trees bend o’er a place of graves, | 25 |
| And, solemn, shade a chapel’s sad remains; | |
| Where yon scathed poplar through the window waves, | |
| And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains; | |
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| There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind, | |
| Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, | 30 |
| Some hoary shepherd, o’er his staff reclined, | |
| Pores on the graves, and sighs a broken prayer. | |
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| High o’er the pines, that with their darkening shade | |
| Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears | |
| Its crumbling turrets: still its towery head | 35 |
| A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears. | |
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| So, midst the snow of age, a boastful air | |
| Still on the war-worn veteran’s brow attends; | |
| Still his big bones his youthful prime declare, | |
| Though, trembling, o’er the feeble crutch he bends. | 40 |
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| Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flowers creep, | |
| Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led; | |
| Gone is the bower, the grot a ruined heap, | |
| Where bays and ivy o’er the fragments spread. | |
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| ’T was here our sires, exulting from the fight, | 45 |
| Great in their bloody arms, marched o’er the lea, | |
| Eying their rescued fields with proud delight; | |
| Now lost to them! and, ah, how changed to me! * * * * * | |
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