242 SEPTEMBER. 



Oh high magnificence of eve ! 



Thus silent in thy pomp of light, 

 A world self-balanced thou appearest, 

 An ark of fire, thou onward steerest 



Thy upward, glorious course aright ! 



The peasant stands beside his door, 

 To mark thee in thy bright ascent ; 



The village matron, 'neath her tree, 



Sits, in her simple piety, 



Gazing in silent wonderment. 



'6 



'Tis well when aught can wake the heart 

 To love and faith whose trust is right ! 



'Tis well when the soul is not seared, 



And the lew whisper can be heard 



That breathes through nature day and night ! 



