Or did grim spectres strangely glide among them,
Arising from the tombs of other times,
Like ghosts of evil armed with two-edged terror?
Or did the future, with its fear and care,
And pain and death, disturb them and alarm?
Nay-past and future sorrows were cut off,
Sent out of sight, and, so far out of mind,
They never might have been, or been to be;
And neither was allowed to steal upon them,
Or touch them with the finger of concern:
They were contented with the golden present;
And past or future trouble could not reach them!
Yet are they weary, and would be at rest.
The Tide of Even cometh :-well for them.
O, it is well the Tide of Even cometh ;-
Good for the lily and the lovely rose,
Those happy types of innocence and goodness,
That He, who made, preserveth for their time;
Thus giving all fair proof of gentle care ;--
Good for the bird that heralded the sun
With merry music in the morning cloud;
And, for the cheerful greenwood warblers, well.
The love that made them lovely, leaves them not
To perish for the want of mindfulness;
But, in the heather, or the hiding holly,
Under the hedge, or on the broad oak bough,
When Even quits her "sheltering yew, and weaves
Her dusky meshes over land and sea,”
Giveth them welcome rest, and quiet sleep.
O, it is well the Tide of Even cometh ;Right well and good for all the sons of labour; For all who do their duty in the day-time; For those who make the basket for the store; And those who gather store to fill the basket; For those who give the lesson to the learner, And those who gain instruction from the giver; For those who oversee while others work, As well as workers who are overseen ;O, rest alone will satisfy the weary.
But all are not outwearied with the day!
See'st thou the hamlet on this near hill-side,
And yonder, on that lesser hill, another?
And who is he that, at this twilight hour,—
His supper ended, too-around him looketh,
As if he rather would be unobserved,
And not, at present, answer give to any,
Because his object, he would keep a secret?
That's not the coat he works in. Note how fresh-
How neat and clean since his return from toil!
Besides, his colour much resembles blushing!
Say, whither goest thou at this late hour?
"Oh! nowhere far,-besides 'tis not late yet!"
He takes his journey easily just now,
With quite a careless air,-all make-believe,-
As tho' warm workings were not in his heart.
But, lo! supposing he is now unseen,
Leaps he the fences boldly as a hunter!
And is he careful to observe the angles
Of the two miles between his humble cottage,
And that of her-yes, her he goes to visit?
Observe them! aye, but only to avoid them!
Straight as the arrow's course, is that he takes;
And having reached yon lesser hill, he halts
Beside a pleasant cottage; and-and-and,
Altho' he lingered, willing to remain,
By her he was persuaded to return;
How well contented; full of hope, and happy!
How did she look ? "Ay! lad, she did look bonny!
But this, of course, is strictly confidential!"
Hark! there is music! Is the night not holy?
The village band has struck the outdoor air ;—
On the hillside, above the gloomy wood,
Where silence reigned so recently alone,
All peacefully as yon calm cloud on high,
In the lone moonlight o'er the quiet vale,-
The village band gives out its parting strain,
Sudden and unexpected; yet the sound
Is, by the distance, softly mellowed so,
The listening ear was startled gently only,
While the mute heart drinks pleasure from the stream
So sweetly flowing through the moonlight fair.
How clear each part, and how distinct each note!
Each instrument, (as if it played alone,)
Imparteth to the ear its melody;
And yet the harmony is so complete,
As to call into being the belief
That there may be perfection, even here!
THE ARGUMENT.-What if night were not to come. Song of Even. Vision of continuous day commences. War--a wonder of wickedness. The shade of Cowper, the poet, questioned. Battle and its mocking result.
Ir the night came not with its quiet hours,
As things are now, the world would suffer loss
No radiance could repair. If sunset silence
Came not in time of storm, when wildly flies,
Like chaff before the blast, the blinding snow,
How could the voice with harp and carol tell,
In merry music, by the warm fireside,
The tales of other times,-tell how mute grief,
That veiled the spirit with its night of gloom,
Was drawn aside by splendour of the dawn
That brightened gladly into joyful day? Or how could then, if evermore on high The sun looked down, an everlasting watcher That would not look away,-O, how could then, The pleasant Spring come as it cometh now, With fields of flowers and lands of lovely bloom, Cheering as hope, and good as gentleness That graduateth in the school of Love, And gains diploma signed by hand divine ? Or how could Summer hold her happiness Without the hush of eve to bring repose,The hand of eve to spread the silent shade, To open starry skies and shut the flowers, And succour them with dews? But if the grass, And lilies of the field, and young green corn, And all the fair things of the hopeful Spring,
And all the life of golden Summer glory,
Demands the night; where then, if not night
Would be the mirth of hay-time? Where the joy
Of them who gaily sing the Harvest Home?
Why comes the Tide of Even? Come and see.
Now opens on the view a field of vision!
Oh! what a sight to see! In midday heaven
Shineth the sun, and never, never moves!
There he has been, O, no one knows how long,
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