There is a beauty in the grey twilight,
Which minds unmusical can never know,
A holy quietude, that yields to woe
A pulseless pleasure, fraught with pure delight:
The aspect of the mountains huge, that brave
And bear upon their breasts the rolling storms;
And the soft twinkling of the stars, that pave
Heaven's highway with their bright and burning forms;
The rustle of the dark boughs overhead:
The murmurs of the torrent far away;
The last notes of the blackbird, and the bay
Of sullen watch-dog, from the far farm-stead--
All waken thoughts of Being's early day,
Loves quench'd, hopes past, friends lost, and pleasures fled.
_Blackwood's Magazine_.
* * * * *