Classic Poem

THE Last E VENING .

L INGER a moment ere 'tis o'er—
 This last of our sweet evening hours.
As wanderers, leaving some fair shore,
 Might pause to snatch a few bright flowers,
Which on their beating hearts they lay,
 Memorials of that sunny clime;
Dear friends, shall we not bear away
  Thoughts of this happy time?

Have we no flowers of memory
 Close at our hearts to treasure fair,
Perchance to wither as they lie,
 But sometimes still to scent our air?
Bright thoughts of love and joy to come,
 In hours of toil and weariness,
And bring us, in each distant home,
  Gleams of this happiness.

Shall we not dream when twilight shades
 Drop o'er the dark earth's quiet face,
How soft they touch'd the greenwood glade
 Around our happy trysting place,
How blithely heart with heart did blend,
 How gentle was our sportive strife,
Sisters and kin, each chosen friend,
  Dear brother, and young wife?

Will there not come, when vespers chime,
 And one of all the band shall hear
An echo from our service-time,
 Deep thrilling to each heart and ear?
The spirits, by one impulse stirr'd,
 Swelling the church's even-song,
The voice that falter'd o'er her word
  So solemn, deep, and strong.

Ah! were we then in truth alone?
 Had not each loving heart a dream,—
A glorious vision of its own,
 That all too bright for words did seem,—
Whereat the tear unbidden springs;
 And yet it has no shade of gloom;
As if two angels waved their wings
  Across the quiet room?

Friends, gentle friends, the world is wide,
 And few the scatter'd sweets we find,
We would not cast such flowers aside,
 Though we must leave the root behind.
Then pause awhile on this last night,
 And linger o'er our parting strain,
This commune sweet, this converse light,
  When will they come again?