The Wilmingtonian, And Delaware Register

AN EVENING SKETCH.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

The birds have ceased their song All, save the black cap, that, amid the boughs Of yon tall ash tree, from his mellow throat, In adoration of the setting sun, Chants forth his evening hymn. Tis twilight now; The sovereign sun behind his western hills In glory hath declined. The mighty clouds, Kissed by his warm effulgence, hang around In all their congregated hues of pride, Like pillars of some tabernacle grand, Worthy his glowing presence, while the sky, Illumined to its centre, glows intense. Changing its sapphire majesty to gold. How deep is the tranquility! the trees Are slumbering through their multitude boughs, Even to the leaflet on the frailest twig! A twilight gloom pervades the distant hills; An azure softness mingles with the sky. The fisherman drags to the yellow shore His laden nets: and, in the sheltering cove, Behind yon rocky point, his shallop moors, T'o tempt again the perilous deep at dawn. The sea is waveless, as a lake ingulph'd Mid sheltering hills-without a ripple spreads Its bosom, silent. and immense--the hues Of flickering day have from its surface died Leaving it garb'd in sunless majesty. With bosoming branches, round, yon village hangs Its row of lofty elm trees; silently Towering in spiral wreaths to the soft sky. The smoke from many a cheerful hearth ascends; Melting in ether. As I gaze, behold The evening star illumines the blue south, Twinkling in loveliness. O! holy star, Thou bright dispenser of the twilight dews, Thou herald of Night's glowing galaxy, And harbinger of social bliss! how oft, Amid the twilights of departed years, Resting beside the river's mirror clear On trunk of massy oak with eyes upturn'd To thee in admiration, have I sat Dreaming sweet dreams, till earth-born turbulence Was all forgot; and thinking that in thee, Far from the rudeness of this jarring world, There might be realms of quiet happiness!