14

THE TIDE OF EVEN.

O, 'tis a grand display!

Although the envious wind seems bent on mischief;
And, as if hired to hinder the new splendour
From taking full possession of the time,
Blows spitefully upon it; yet the scene
Fixes attention, rouses admiration,
Awakens wonder, and inspires amaze!

So full the streets of people, that, even death
Cometh among them, called for by the crushing!

But does the glory chase the Tide of Even
Back to the hollows, and the caves of ocean?
Back to the underground where things of gloom
Hide, from the day-song, in the deep of silence-
From hope and sunshine, down in doubt and darkness?
Come now, and see!

To glorify the city,

Whatever art could do has now been done;
The hand of skill has finished, and is weary:
How the triumphal arches charm, and burn!
Stars are as common here as in the sky,
And crowns of glory common as the stars!
Here boughs of trees burn brightly, unconsumed,
And, as if splendour was their natural fruit,
And the yield greater than the utmost need,
'Tis freely spread abroad. The coloured lamps,

Like precious stones, afire, set round the columns,
In sweet captivity hold all beholders!

The swelling dome is belted round with rays
Gleaming in crystal globes of gold and purple!
Along the walls run lines of living light,
Suggesting that wild lightnings have been tamed,
And told to grace the scene! Th' electric light
Glances its flashing eye from dizzy dome,

And strikes a course across the night afar!

The bonfires, like volcanoes, in full blaze,

Flap, with their fanning wings, the wondering sky!

Swift rockets hiss, like serpents, up the air,
Startle the clouds, and scatter showers of stars!
And does this much impede the Tide of Even ?
Much as a pebble may the mighty river,
Or downy feather hinder rushing wind!

But cometh now the angel of reflection,-
Quietly cometh on the wings of thought,
Unto the thoughtful mind. With easy motion,
Like to the flow of sunshine through the window,
So doth he come; and in a gentle tone,-

A whisper sweetly suited to the time,

As mother, when her babe is sleeping, speaketh,
So speaketh he, and saith:-

"The land of light

Is far above all other lands, and there
Are the fair fields of truth-fair evermore,
Yet free as fair for all. There no strange spell

Of dreary doubt may give the spirit grief.
No wintry tempest of perverse discussion,
Can ever reach that realm.

No sullen cloud

Will scatter there disturbance,—or, for ever,
Cast a cold shadow o'er the happy plains."

PART II.

THE ARGUMENT.-Day, and the illuminations of art compared. Why the night cometh. Children, and the things they fear not. Rest, a necessity. The lover at Even. Music at midnight.

Why comes the Tide of Even ? Light is good;
The sunshine is a sea of joy and glory,
Washing cold darkness from the face of beauty!
How pure and blessed is the smile of splendour,
Telling of GOD-the MAKER of the morning!
O, how the royal Ruler of the day

Putteth to shame our proud illuminations!
Illuminations! Why the grand display,—
The costliest ever lavished on the night;
The brightest earth could bring to burn the dark;
The best that gold could buy; or care, and skill,

And loyal hearts and willing hands, provide;
That fixed attention, call'd up admiration,
Awaken'd wonder, and inspired amaze,-
What did it more in any pleasant valley

Of happy homes, fair halls, and flowery gardens ;
What more on any high, and flame-crown'd hill;
In any town beside the flow of water;
In any city on the rock of fame;

On any river, headland, shore, or ocean;
Or even in the' imperial capital-

What more than show itself?

Did any river

Tell, in its flowing song, of daylight born?

Did any mountain-top shout "Lo! the sun!"
Was any rose persuaded to reveal,

To passer by, the beauty of its bloom?

Did any lark leap up and say,

in song,

"It is it is the presence of the morn?" Did any daisy in the dewy meadow,

Open its eye and upward look-deceived?

Did the fields say "Behold! how fair our green ?" Did any robin, in its place of hiding,

Give out a quiet warble, and declare

"Surely the morning cometh?" Surely No!

Yet, tell us, wherefore comes the Tide of Even,

B

From the dark deeps, so solemn and so silent, Like omnipresent ghost of pensive gloom, Or widow'd mother from the room of mourning, To put to rest her children. 'Tis for good The Tide of Even comes. It bringeth peace, Stillness, repose and sleep. The day hath war, Hath noises, work and watching; but the night Husheth the storm and thunder of the battle; Calmeth the tempest on the sea of life; Calleth the worker from the whirr of wheels; The weaver from the shuttle and the loom; The farmer from his labour in the field; The woodman from his hewing in the forest; The mason from the dressing of the stone; The builder from the wall of rising dwelling,— In a low tone, it calls the sons of toil, Everywhere, home, home, unto rest and sleep.

O, it is well the Tide of Even cometh ;—
Well for the little ones whose wandering feet
Have been, where fancy led, along the fair
And flowery fields of cheerfulness and song,
Till home-thoughts came, and home they, tired,

return.

How, with the present, were their minds engaged! Did they, on days departed, sadly muse

And grieve to think those days would be no more ?