Linnets with unnumbered notes,

And the cuckoo-bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,

Bid the setting sun adieu.

J. W. CUNNINGHAM.

EVENING IN AUTUMN.

T was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood;
The corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly; nature seemed,
In silent contemplation, to adore

Its Maker: now and then the aged leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end.
On lake and vale, on wood and mountain high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought,
Conversing with itself.

POLLOK.

EVENING IN AUTUMN.

RANQUIL and clear the Autumnal day declined; The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shades On the grey bastioned walls; airs from the deep Wandered and touched the cordage as they passed, Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred Scarce the quiescent pennant; the bright sea Lay silent in its glorious amplitude,

Without; far up in the pale atmosphere,

A white cloud, here and there, hung overhead,
And some red freckles streaked the horizon's edge,
Far as the sight could reach: beneath the rocks,
That rear their dark brows beetling o'er the bay,

The gulls and guilemots, with short, quaint cry,
Just broke the sleeping stillness of the air,
Or skimming, almost touched the level main,
With wings far seen, and more intensely white,
Opposed to the blue space! whilst Panope
Rolled in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream,
Inland, went sounding on, by rocks, and sands,
And castle, yet so sounding as it seemed

A voice amidst the hushed and listening world
That spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's point
One piping red-breast might almost be heard.
Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceable
The hour: the very swallows, ere they left
The coast to pass a long and weary way
O'er ocean's solitude, seemed to renew
Once more their summer feelings, as a light

So sweet would last for ever, whilst they flocked
In the brief sunshine of the turret-top.

BOWLES.

AN EVENING SERVICE.

HE cold wind strips the yellow leaf,
The stars are twinkling faintly o'er us!
All nature wears her garb of grief,
While day's fair book is closed before us.

The songs have ceased,—and busy men
Are to their beds of silence creeping;
The pale cold moon looks out again
On the tired world so softly sleeping.

Oh, in an hour so still as this,

From care, and toil, and tumult stealing,

I'll consecrate an hour to bliss

To meek devotion's holy feeling;

And rise to thee-to thee, whose hand
Unrolled the golden map of heaven :
Mantled with beauty all the land;
Gave light to morn, and shade to even.

Being, whose all-pervading might
The laws of countless worlds disposes;
Yet gives the sparkling dews their light—
Their beauty to the blushing roses :

Thou, Ruler of our destiny!

With million gifts thou hast supplied us,

Hidden from our view futurity,

Unveiling all the past to guide us.

Though dark may be earth's vale and damp,
A thousand stars shine sweetly o'er us,
And immortality's pure lamp

Gladdens and gilds our path before us.

And in the silence of the scene

Sweet tones from heaven are softly speaking Celestial music breathes between,

The slumbering soul of bliss awaking.

Short is the darkest night, whose shade Wraps nature's breast in clouds of sadness; And joy's sweet flowers, that seem to fade, Shall bloom anew in kindling gladness.

Death's darkness is more bright to him
Who looks beyond in visions holy,
Than passion's fire, or splendour's dream,
Or all the glare of sin and folly.

The silent tear, the deep-fetched sigh,
Which virtue heaves in hours of quiet,
Are dearer than pomp's revelry,
Or the mad laugh of frenzied riot;

Smiles from a conscience purified,
Far lovelier than the fleeting glory
Conferred in all a monarch's pride,
Embalmed in all the light of story.

This joy be ours-our weeks shall roll-
And let them roll-our bark is driven
Safe to its harbour-and our soul
Awaking, shall awake in heaven.

BOWRING.

EVENING IN JUDEA.

"To show forth thy loving-kindness in the morning, and thy faithfulness every night."-PSALM Xcii. 2.

HE sun is set-and yet his light

Is lingering in the crimson sky,
Like memory, beautiful and bright,

Of holy men that die.

O'er Tabor's hill, o'er Baca's dale,

The shades of evening softly creep—
Softly as mother draws the veil

To wrap her infant's sleep.

The dews fall gently on the flower,

Their freshening influence to impart—

As pity's tears of soothing power

Revive the drooping heart.

The twilight star from Hermon's peak

Comes mildly o'er the glistening earth;
And weary hirelings joy to seek

Their dear domestic hearth.

Who sends the sun to ocean's bed?

Who brings the night-shade from the west ?

Who bids the balmy dews be shed?
Who gives the weary rest?

Even He who, at the season due,

Sends forth the sun's returning light,
Whose mercies every morn are new,
Whose faithfulness each night.

KNOX.

MORNING AND EVENING.

SOW beautiful is Morn!

When day-light, newly born,

From the bright portals of the east is breaking, While songs of joy resound

From countless warblers round,

To light and life from silent slumber waking.

The parting clouds unfold

Their edges tinged with gold;
Bright is the summit of the lofty mountain;
The glistening tops of trees,

Touched by the rustling breeze,

Are bright and tuneful as the muse's fountain.

As upward mounts the sun,

The valleys, one by one,

Ope their recesses to the living splendour;
The mighty ocean's breast

Heaves upward to be blest,

And bids its waves reflected light surrender.

Each humble flower lifts up

Its dewy bell or cup,

Smiling through tears that know no tinge of sadness;

The insect tribes come out,

And, fluttering all about,

Fill the fresh air with gentle sounds of gladness.