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 HERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
 * When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,

And the eye sees life’s fairy scenes depart,
 * As fades the daybeam in the rosy west.

’Tis with a nameless feeling of regret
 * We gaze upon them as they melt away,

And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
 * But Hope is round us with her angel lay,

Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth her cheek was crimsoned with her glow;
 * Her smile was loveliest then; her matinmating [sic] song

Was heaven’s own music, and the note of woe
 * Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.

Life’s little word of bliss was newly born;
 * We knew not, cared not, it was born to die,

Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
 * With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,

And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, Like our own sorrows then—as fleeting and as few.