It is the silent hour when they who roam,
Seek shelter, on the earth, or ocean's breast;
It is the hour when travel finds a home,
On deserts, or within the cot to rest.
It is the hour when joy and grief are blest,
And Nature finds repose where'er she roves;
It is the hour that lovers like the best,
When in the twilight shades, or darker groves,
The maiden wanders with the swain she loves.


The balmy hour when fond hearts fondly meet;
The hour when dew like welcome rest descends
On wild-flowers, shedding forth their odours sweet;
The hour when sleep lays foes as quiet friends; —
The hour when labour's toilworn journey ends,
And seeks the cot for sweet repose till morn; —
The hour when prayer from all to God ascends; —
At twilight's hour love's softest sighs are born,
When lovers linger neath the flowering thorn.


Oh! at this hour I love to be abroad,
Gazing upon the moonlit scene around
" Looking through Nature up to Nature's God"
Regarding all with reverence profound!
The wild flowers studding every inch of ground,
And trees, with dews bespangled, looking bright
As burnished silver; — while the entrancing sound
Of melody, from the sweet bird of night,
Fills my whole soul with rapture and delight.
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