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| THE SUN sinks in the west: rich orange hues | |
| Change into purple, and a mellow haze | |
| Falls on the mountains. Solemnly they lie, | |
| In silent grandeur, mirrored on the lake, | |
| Those heights majestic! Nearing Balmaha, | 5 |
| The water-lilies, rocking on the swell | |
| Made by the oars, have sunset’s rosy blush | |
| Upon their snow-white chalices. Broad leaves | |
| Of glossy green that on the surface float, | |
| As oar-blades lift their long elastic stems, | 10 |
| Flap on the water. * * * * * | |
| The veil of evening falls. A mighty calm | |
| Pervades the landscape. In the gloaming, even | |
| The rugged heights, with outline softened, yield | |
| To charméd sleep. All breathing deep repose, | 15 |
| There is a summer softness in the air; | |
| And sweet that dewy fragrance from the flowers | |
| We know are springing all around our feet, | |
| Although we cannot see their loveliness. | |
| Yon scarlet flakes hung low in amber air, | 20 |
| Beyond the purple peaks, intensely burn, | |
| Till each streak, waxing thread-like, disappears, | |
| Foretelling bright to-morrow. From lone cots, | |
| Hid by the trees, thin columns of blue smoke, | |
| Ascending, mingle with the twilight shades, | 25 |
| And die in blue mid-air. Wending along | |
| By wooded promontories, overhead | |
| Far-stretching branches interlace, and cast | |
| Their dusky shadows on our path. We meet | |
| The herd-boy bringing home the lowing kine, | 30 |
| And, gazing, follow him, till all the train, | |
| Last he himself, in windings of the way | |
| Is lost. * * * * * Full orbed, | |
| In mild effulgence from the dim blue hills, | |
| The fair moon rises, shedding o’er the world | 35 |
| A wild romantic beauty. On the lake | |
| Her yellow lustre glimmers, taking all | |
| The gentle ripples by the pebbly marge; | |
| While rising terraces of dark green trees | |
| Repose in silence, bronze-like, touched with gold; | 40 |
| And island groups clothed to the water’s brink, | |
| Each mirrored double in the clear blue deep, | |
| Seem ever varying as we walk along. | |
| We mark rude bridges, torrents, mountain bourns, | |
| Lone paths into the woods, and, through the leaves, | 45 |
| Steep cataracts dashing, in white silvery foam; | |
| The hushed air, fragrant with the tedded hay; | |
| And dew-drops sparkling on each blade of grass. * * * * * | |
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