Page:Sentimental reciter.pdf/20

 The dewy eve, the dewy eve,

Oh! that’s the time when men believe

The wild romance or fairy tale,

At which the urchin’s cheek turns pale;

’Tis then they harvest soothing thought,

With wisdom or with fancy fraught;

Then gladly seek in stilly sleep

A refuge from these musings deep

That, changeful, make us smile or weep.

The dewy eve, the dewy eve,

’Tis then that strange wild fancies cleave

With shadowy dim, but forceful sway

Around the heart; ’tis then that fay,

Peri, and genii, dance along

The verdant mead, with shout and song;—

How blythe their empire! Till ’tis past,

Fiend and demon of the blast

Are held in leaden bondage fast!

The dewy eve, the dewy eve,

In that calm time, who would not leave

The festal hall—the busy strife

Of warring thoughts—the hum of life,

To brush from off the heather bell,

Or primrose in sequestered dell,

The freshening damp that at that hour

Falls, all unseen a gentle shower,

Symbol of Nature’s love and power.

Where, where is the gate that once served to divide

The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side?

I like not this barrier gaily bedight,

With its glittering latch and its trellis of white;

It is seemly I own—yet, oh! dearer by far

Was the red-rusted hinge and the weather warped bar.

Here are fashion and form of a modernized date,

But I’d rather have look'd on the Old Farm Gate.

’Twas here where the urchins would gather to play

In the shadows of twilight or sunny mid-day;

For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand

Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand,