The simple violet takes no thought,

While breathing forth its odours rare ; They came from heaven, they cost her nought, And yet they gladden earth and air.

EVENING.

'MIDST a rich shew of clouds, the day

Sinks slowly, like some honour'd friend, Whom, as he parts upon his way, A faithful farewell train attend.

The night comes on with silent pace,
The sounds of busy life decay;
Like ocean-waves, that ebb apace,
The mingled murmurs melt away.

The first few stars begin to peep,
The birds have ceased their melody,
And slumber settles, soft and deep,
On childhood's quickly-closing eye.

This is the hour, the hour of rest,
By sages lov'd, by poets sung,
When 'midst the stillness of the breast

The gates of thought are open flung ;

When grief, and wrong, and worldly ills,
Touch'd by the magic hour, are flown,
As some meek-hearted mother stills
With gentle voice her infant's moan;

When cares and pleasures unrefined,
Day's various scenes of toil or glee,
Retire, and leave the exorcised mind
One still and dim vacuity;

And clearer through the silent void

Is heard the voice of Truth supreme, And brighter thro' the gloom descried

The torch of Wisdom sheds its beam.

Then the strong soul, unfetter'd, wings
Where'er she lists her flight sublime,

Thro' earthly, or eternal things,

Thro' good or ill, thro' space or time :

O'er early errors heaves the sigh,

Looks downward thro' unfolding years, And broods on coming grief or joy

With tranquil hope, and chastened fears.

Then the great spirit of the past

Comes, with his rainbow-flag unfurl'd, Whose folds, far-spread, on all things cast A light, that is not of this world;

And the rapt soul in vision views

Her early loves, and hopes, and fears, Trick'd in his nameless, glorious hues, Like visitants from other spheres.

Then, too, the heart is at its play,
The strings of love draw closer then,

And thoughts, dear thoughts, that slept by day,
Come to the lonely heart again.

This is the hour, the peaceful hour,
By sages and by bards approved,
When Hope and Memory blend their power,
And they, who love us, best are loved. *

This is the hour the loved are dearest,

This is the hour the parted meet,

The dead, the distant now are nearest,

And joy is soft, and sorrow sweet.

C. H. TOWNSEND.

LINES WRITTEN AT RUGBY, 1834.

-So lovely seem'd

That landscape; and of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive

All sadness but despair.

PARADISE Losr. iv.

NoT here, not here! though here I meet

Heroic worth, and manly sense,

And virgin faces, young and sweet,
Bright with the joy of innocence;

Though high-born minds their thoughts entwine
In frank and kindly wreath with mine;
And home's pure breath among your bowers

Blows, like an air from Eden-flowers

From cheerful morn to peaceful eve;

Though fields are still, and green, and bright,

And suns and clouds for ever weave

Their wondrous web of shade and light; Not here!-to heart, and mind, and will,

The lonely curse is clinging still;