415 



'I HE WOOD-THRUSH'S EVENING SONG. 



Turdus Mtlodus. — (Wilson.) 



Still Memory culls, O, Happiness ! 



For thee her sweetest flowers ; — 

 The violet, the pink, the rose, 



And woodbine, from her bowers. 



When earth becomes a dreary void, 



For thee her magic wand 

 She waves, and lo! in colours bright, 



A wondrous fairy land ! 



When friends forsake us — when the fates 



The dearest friends divide, 

 For thee still Memory hovers near, 



Thy long affianc'd bride* 



The tender look — the dying word 



She holds for ever dear; 

 And, while affection prompts the sigh, 



And sorrow sheds the tear, 



She beckons Hope, in misty robe, 



And thee to deck the urn ; 

 And dwells with sad delight, on hours 



That never can return. 



