[183] The Times.
THE EVENING LARK.
For the Table Book.
I love thee better at this hour, when rest
Is shadowing earth, than e’en the nightingale:
The loudness of thy song that in the morn
Rang over heaven, the day has softened down
To pensive music.
In the evening, the body relaxed by the toil of the day, disposes the mind to quietness and contemplation. The eye, dimmed by close application to books or business, languishes for the greenness of the fields; the brain, clouded by the smoke and vapour of close rooms and crowded streets, droops for the fragrance of fresh breezes, and sweet smelling flowers.
Summer cometh,
The bee hummeth,
The grass springeth,
The bird singeth,
The flower groweth,
And man knoweth
The time is come
When he may rove
Thro’ vale and grove.
No longer dumb.
There he may hear sweet voices,
Borne softly on the gale;
There he may have rich choices
Of songs that never fail;
The lark, if he be cheerful,
Above his head shall tower;
And the nightingale, if fearful,
Shall soothe him from the bower.
***