TWILIGHT.

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye see's life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But Hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early

power.

In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow; Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too,—on the eye,
Half realised, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lower the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air

Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

"Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer

green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death.

We sat us down and wept,

Where Babel's waters slept,

And we thought of home and Zion as a long-gone,

happy dream;

We hung our harps in air

On the willow boughs, which there,

Gloomy as round a sepulchre, were drooping o'er

the stream.

The foes, whose chain we wore,

Were with us on that shore,

Exulting in our tears that told the bitterness of woe.

"Sing us," they cried aloud,

"Ye, once so high and proud,

"The songs ye sang in Zion ere we laid her glory low."

And shall the harp of heaven

To Judah's monarch given

Be touched by captive fingers, or grace a fettered hand?

No! sooner be my tongue

Mute, powerless, and unstrung,

Than its words of holy music make glad a stranger land.

May this right hand, whose skill

Can wake the harp at will,

And bid the listeners' joys or griefs in light or

darkness come,

Forget its godlike power,

If for one brief, dark hour,

My heart forgets Jerusalem, fallen city of my home!