Eventide / A Series of Tales and Poems

I never gaze
Upon the evening, but a tide of awe,
And love, and wonder, from the Infinite,
Swells up within me, as the running brine
From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea,
Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream,
Until it threats its, banks. It is not joy,—
'Tis sadness more divine.
Alexander Smith.
To the
FIRESIDES OF THE WESTERN WORLD,
With the fond Hope