MEET me at sunset-the hour we love best,
Ere day's last crimson blushes have died in the west,- When the shadowless ether is blue as thine eye, And the breeze is as balmy and soft as thy sigh; When giant-like forms lengthen fast o'er the ground From the motionless mill and the linden trees round; When the stillness below-the mild radiance above, Softly sink on the heart, and attune it to love.
Meet me at sunset-oh! meet me once more,
'Neath the wide-spreading thorn where you met me of
When our hearts were as calm as the broad summer sea
That lay gleaming before us, bright, boundless, and
And, with hand clasped in hand, we sat trance-bound,
That life would be ever the thing it then seemed.— The tree we then planted, green record! lives on, But the hopes that grew with it are faded and gone.
Meet me at sunset, beloved! as of old,—
When the boughs of the chestnut are waving in gold; When the starry clematis bends down with its bloom, And the jasmine exhales a more witching perfume. That sweet hour shall atone for the anguish of years, And though fortune still frown, bid us smile through our
Through the storms of the future shall soothe and sustain ; Then, meet me at sunset-oh, meet me again!
BY THE REV. E. W. BARNARD.
How gallantly thy soaring wing Hath won yon place on high! And there remains, unwavering, As if its home were in the sky! Usurper! thence thou spread'st afar Terror-like some portentous star! The birds that skim the lower air To covert dark, with shrieks repair; For well thy sudden swoop they know, Thy lightning glance, and deadly blow. The leveret crouches close and still, On rushy brake and sheltering hill; With rustling wing, and fearful wail, Slow round their young the plovers sail; And Man's dim eye and giddy brain
Up to that dazzling height strain after thee in vain.
Yet now, as o'er the city's walls In sorrowing mood I bend,
Thy sight no piteous thought recalls, Thou seem'st an old remembered friend. And, while I gaze, my spirit flies, Free as thy wing, to distant skies; To thyme-clad wold, and valley dear, Where oft I've watched thy proud career. Again around my morning way, Gentle, yet bold, my greyhounds play; Again at noon I throw me down On silver grass, or heather brown,
And gild with young, poetic eye,
The meanest flower that blossoms nigh;
Or people the wild hills again
With thousand fairy forms-Titania's peerless train.
a sportsman's honours won,
I mount yon western brow; Delighted, ere the day is done, To gaze on all that lies below. The far blue hills, the river bright, Burning with sunset's golden light; The scattered cots, with trees between, The lowly church, the village green;
And chiefly, dearer far than all,
Yon shadowy grove, yon old gray hall! A cross surmounts its gable high,
Beneath it, countless roses sigh;
O'er arch and mullion, waving light,
Twine trembling leaves, and blossoms white
Within ;-but hold, my soul! repress
Each thought of that fireside, now cold and tenantless!
Ah, happy home! and must it be For aye my mournful lot
To wander, restless, far from thee; To wish in vain, and win thee not? Vain hope! and merciless as vain! I will not make thee sport again:
yon fierce bird thou seem'st to shine, A star of heaven, 'midst things divine; Drawing the wretch's heart and eye, Then dashing down, in mockery! I'll look no more-I'll stoop to bear, Patient and dull, my load of care. My sickening heart abhors thy ray, Which shines and lures but to betray ! Vain hope! thy fierce delusion's o'er,
Patient I'll suffer on, and look to thee no more!
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