Classic Poem

Farewell , bright sun! mine eyes have watched
Thine hour of waning light;
And tender twilight! fare thee well;
And welcome, star-crowned night!

Pale! serious! silent! with deep spell
Lulling the heart to rest,
As lulls the mother's low, sweet song,
The infant on her breast

Mine own beloved hour! — mine own!
Sacred to quiet thought,
To sacred memories, to calm joys
With no false lustre fraught!

Mine own beloved hour! for now,
Methinks, with gairish day,
I shut the world out, and with those
Long lost, or far away,

The dead, the absent, once again
My soul holds converse free;
To such illusions, life! how dull
Thy best reality!

The vernal nights are chilly yet,
And cheerily and bright
The hearth still blazes, flashing round
Its ruddy, flickering light.

" Bring in the lamp — so — set it there,
Just show its veiled ray,
(Leaving all else in shadowy tone,)
Fall on my book — and — stay —

" Leave my work by me " — Well I love
The needle's useful art;
It's unambitious, womanly,
And mine's a woman's heart.

Not that I ply with sempstress rage,
As if for life, or bread;
No, sooth to say, unconsciously
Slackening the half-drawn thread,

From fingers that (as spell-bound) stop,
Pointing the needle wrong,
Mine eyes toward the open book
Stray oft, and tarry long.

" Stop, stop! Leave open the glass door
Into that winter bower; "
For soon therein th' uprisen moon
Will pour her silvery shower;

Will glitter on those glossy leaves;
On that white pavement shine;
And dally with her eastern love,
That wreathing jessamine.

" Thanks, Lizzy! No; there's nothing more
Thy loving zeal can do;
Only — O yes! — that gypsy flower,
Set that beside me too. "

" That Ethiop, in the China vase? "
" Ay; set it here ; that's right.
Shut the door after you. " 'Tis done;
I'm settled for the night.

Settled and snug; and first, as if
The fact to ascertain,
I glance around, and stir the fire,
And trim the lamp again.

Then, dusky flower! I stoop t' inhale
Thy fragrance. Thou art one
That wooeth not the vulgar eye,
Nor the broad staring sun:

Therefore I love thee! (selfish love
Such preference may be;)
That thou reservest all thy sweets,
Coy thing! for night and me.

What sound was that? Ah, madam puss!
I know that tender mew,
That meek white face, those sea-green eyes,
Those whiskers, wet with dew,

To the gold glass — the greenhouse glass —
Pressed closely from without;
Well, thou art heard; I'll let thee in,
Though skulking home, no doubt

From lawless prowl. Ah, ruthless cat
What evil hast thou done?
What deeds of rapine, the broad eye
Of open day that shun?

What! not a feather plucked to-night?
Is that what thou wouldst tell
With that soft purr, those twinkling eyes,
And waving tail? — Well, well,

I know thee, friend! But get thee in;
By Ranger stretch and doze;
Nay, never growl, old man! her tail
Just whisked across thy nose;

But 'twas no act premeditate,
Thy greatness to molest:
Then, with that long, luxurious sigh,
Sink down again to rest;

But not before one loving look
Towards me, with that long sigh,
Says, " Mistress mine, all's right, all's well!
Thou 'rt there, and here am I ! "

That point at rest, we're still again;
I on my work intent;
At least, with poring eyes, thereon
In seeming earnest bent;

And fingers, nimble at their task,
Mechanically true;
Tho' Heaven knows where, what scenes, the while
My thoughts are travelling to!

Now far from earth, now over earth,
Traversing lands and seas;
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood,
Such idle rhymes as these;

Now dwelling on departed days —
Ah! that 's no lightsome mood;
On those to come, no longer now
Through hope's bright focus viewed;

On that which is — ay, there I pause
No more in young delight;
But patient, grateful, well assured
" Whatever is is right! "

And all to be is in His hands;
O, who would take it thence?
Give me not up to mine own will,
Merciful Providence!

Such thoughts, when other thoughts, may be
Are darkening into gloom,
Come to me like the angel shape,
That, standing by the tomb,

Cheered those who came to sorrow there;
And then I see and bless
His love in all that he withholds,
And all I still possess.

So varied, — now with book, or work,
Or pensive reverie,
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights,
Or scribbling vein, may be,

Or eke the pencil's cunning craft,
Or lowly-murmured lay
To the according viola, —
Calm evening slips away.

The felt-shod hours move swiftly on,
Until the stroke of ten
(The accustomed signal) summons round
My little household. Then,

The door unclosing, enters first
That aged, faithful friend,
Whose prayer is, with her master's child
Her blameless days to end.

The younger pair come close behind,
But her dear hand alone
(Her dear old hand! now tremulous
With palsying weakness grown)

Must reverently before me place
The sacred book. 'Tis there;
And all our voices, all our hearts,
Unite in solemn prayer;

In praise and thanksgiving, for all
The blessings of the light;
In prayer, that be would keep us through
The watches of the night.

A simple rite! and soon performed;
Leaving, in every breast,
A heart more fittingly prepared
For sweet, untroubled rest.

And so we part; but not before,
Dear nurse! a kiss from thee
Imprints my brow, thy fond good-night
To God commending me!

Amen! and may his angels keep
Their watch around thy bed,
And guard from every hurtful thing
Thy venerable head!