[See image]

[Read text]

AT DAY’S DECLINE THE MOON DOTH SHINE.

At last the sun begins to sink,
And soon is on the very brink
Of setting in the quiet sea;
The ploughing horses leave the lea,
The weary workman homeward goes
Thinking of supper and repose;
And darkness closes o’er the scene,
Where late the murderous sport had been:
The moon, with pale and pitying looks,
Shines on the slaughter-field of rooks:
The owlets hoot, from ivy bower,
In the grey embattled tower—
“Tuwit, tuwit, towhoo!” they say,
And echoing through the ruins grey,
The sound disturbs the daily sleep
Of bats who dwell in dungeon keep,
Who ’mong the ruins nightly flit,
And under aged arches sit.

[See image]

[Read text]

HOME RETURNING AT THE GLOAMING.

The farmers can no longer mark
The Crows among the branches dark:
Now let us homeward go, they say;
And gathering up their slaughtered prey,
His share each one in bundles ties,
And takes them home to make crow pies.