THE WOLF. [(4)]
A Fragment.
'Tis evening,—one of those rich eves in June,
That look as bright, and feel as warm as noon;
The setting sun its parting ray has thrown
Italia's smiling groves and bowers upon:
Amid the balm of meadow, vale, and hill,
Where all is beautiful, and all is still;
A bard would deem, 'neath such a tranquil sky,
He heard the stream of time while rushing by:
'Tis the soft hour, to love that doth belong,