again and again in the course of that to us memorable evening, could
keep us indoors. Lilac, hawthorn, and laburnum had of course flowered
and faded, and the glory of the rhododendrons was fast passing away.
But the air was fragrant with the newly-made but yet uncarted hay; the
scent of the elder was wafted from the lane; the smell of sweet-briar,
with its profusion of little pink rosebuds, was everywhere in the
garden; and we kept stopping ever and again to inhale the penetrating
perfume of the freshly-opened tassels of the lime. Longer and darker
grew the shadows on the lawn, then gradually drew themselves in, and
vanished. The Tea Roses, no longer languid from the heat of the long
summer day, lifted their fair faces freshened with evening dew; the
streaks of crimson that point the pathway of departed days gradually
faded from the west, and the lingering love-song of the missel-thrush
at length came to end, absorbed into the general silence. It was
twilight still, but a twilight slowly succumbing to the Midsummer
night, if night it could be called to which the darkness never wholly
came. Elsewhere, on shrub and sward the deepening dusk brought its
beneficent tribute of abounding moisture; but, under the manifold
foliage of the Oak, the ground retained the dryness of noon. Under
its protecting canopy therefore, as many a time before, satisfied and
silent we sate; till Lamia, moved by the influence of the hour, once
again liberated her fresh young voice, and wedded to notes of almost
austere simplicity the no less simple measure of this Vesper Hymn.
GOOD-NIGHT!
I
Good-night! Now dwindle wan and low
The embers of the afterglow,
And slowly over leaf and lawn
Is twilight’s dewy curtain drawn.
The slouching vixen leaves her lair,
And, prowling, sniffs the tell-tale air.
The frogs croak louder in the dyke,
And all the trees seem dark alike:
The bee is drowsing in the comb,
The sharded beetle hath gone home:
Good-night!
II
Good-night! The hawk is in his nest,
And the last rook hath dropped to rest.
There is no hum, no chirp, no bleat,
No rustle in the meadow-sweet.
The woodbine, somewhere out of sight,
Sweetens the loneliness of night.
The Sister Stars, that once were seven,
Mourn for their missing mate in Heaven.
The poppy’s fair frail petals close,
The lily yet more languid grows,
And dewy-dreamy droops the rose:
Good-night!
III
Good-night! Caressing and caressed,
The moist babe warms its mother’s breast.
Silent are rustic loom and lathe;
The scythe lies quiet as the swathe;
The woodreeve blinks in covert shed,
The weary yokel is abed,
The covey warm beneath the wing,
And sleep enfoldeth everything.
Forsaken love, its last tear shed,
On the lone pillow lays its head,
And all our woes are respited:
Good-night!
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Obvious typographical errors have beencorrected silently . All other
variations in hyphenation spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.
Colour plates are identified by their captions. The many
illustrations without captions are black and white sketches of largely
rural scenes. No attempt has been made to describe them.