Classic Poem

'T IS evening; and the sun hath sunk to rest,
Mid purple clouds descending; and the stars,
Kindling their watchlights from his blazing fire,
With milder radiance fill the vault of heaven;
Each to the others, in responsive notes,
Singing the praises of their great Creator.
Now the moon, above the eastern hill,
Reveals her silver chariot, and anon
Climbs up the empyrean; tangled oft
With fleecy clouds; oft bursting into view;
In mellow beauty still she speeds her way.
How soft her beams glance on yon distant lake, —
Save where the falling mist obscures its face,
And curls along its banks, until afar
Its shores are blended in the shades of night.
How freshly breathes the air upon the cheek,
Beneath the woodbines of the trellish'd bow'r.
After the sultry heat of summer's day;
While sweetest flow'rs, beneath the stilly night,
Yield forth their perfume! Now the whippoorwill
Wakens the echoes in their viewless caves,
With plaintive music, mournful to the soul,
But sweet as memory of days gone by.
Hark! hear the serenade's enchanting notes
Steal o'er the plain, melodious and soft,
And slow approaching, swell upon the ear.
Now they burst forth harmonious and loud,
In lofty chorus; viol and guitar,
Soul-soothing flute, and tuneful flageolet,
And mortal voice, that angels well might deem
Of some blest spirit uttering notes of joy!
List to the symphony! that dying fall!
And now it fades away, soft and more soft,
Sweet and more sweet, in solemn stillness hush'd,
Like the Æolian harp, when suddenly
The breeze departs to wake its chords no more.
And why should man repine, when nature thus
Beams often bright with grandeur, beauty, bliss!