That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
O noon of day, in sunshine bright, 15
What art thou to the fall of night?
Joanna Baillie.
CLXXXVIII
THE LONELY.
She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,
A smile of her’s was like an act of grace;
She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,