THE DYING HOUR.
Why does the day, whose date is brief,
Smile sadly o'er the western sea?
Why does the brown autumnal leaf
Hang restless on its parent tree?
Why does the rose, with drooping head,
Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
Their golden time of life had fled—
It was their dying hour!
Why does the swan's melodious song
Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
Their time was past—they lived to die—
It was their dying hour!
Why does the dolphin change its hues,
Like that aërial child of light?
Why does the cloud of night refuse
To meet the morn with beams so bright?
Why does the man we saw to-day,
To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
All earth can give must pass away—
It was their dying hour!
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
The mournful music of the mind,
The echo of a tear;
And still methought the hollow sound
Which, melting, swept along,
The voice of other days had found,
With all the powers of song.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And thought of friends untrue—
Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,
That nought could e'er undo;
Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright—
Of joys which fancy gave—
Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light
Were darken'd in the grave.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind
When all was still as death;
When nought was heard before, behind—
Not e'en the sleeper's breath.
And I have sat at such an hour
And heard the sick man's sigh;
Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,
At that lone moment die.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And wept for others' woe;
Nor could the heart such music find
To bid its tear-drops flow.
The melting voice of one we loved,
Whose voice was heard no more,
Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,
Still breathing as before.