The tender Twilight with a crimson cheek
Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind
Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down
To slumber by the darkened woods--the herds
Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green
And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,
And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade,
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo from the distant hill,
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty--like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
'Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life
Of peace, in some green paradise like this. The brazen trumpet, and the loud war-drum
Ne'er startled these green woods: --the raging sword
Hath never gathered its red harvest here!
The peaceful Summer day hath never closed
Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp: --the humble dweller here
Hath never left his sickle in the field,
To slay his fellow with unholy hand,
The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,
And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,
Have never broke its sabbath solitude.