Poems (Stephens)/Eventide

by Eliza Jane Stephens

For works with similar titles, see Eventide.

EVENTIDE.

Give me the harp, I fain would sing
 A varied song of days gone by,
Thou needst not stay, but if thou must,
 Alike to me are smile or sigh.

What matters now thy praise or blame,
 Thy pity, or thy deepest scorn,
Thou canst not cloud those sunny days,
 Nor make the saddest less forlorn.

As he who's passed through winter's cold,
 Anon through summer's burning heat,
Is gad when comes the autumn time,
 To And at last a calm retreat.

So I can sit and calmly take
 A quiet look along the past,
Not long the way, but oh the work,
 In hopes and fears to me how vast.

Yes, I had hopes, and far too bright,
 For aught but youth's delusive dream,
I looked at life through rosy light,
 And how delightful did it seem.

I saw a path with pleasures spread,
 A wreath of honor for my brow,
And all the grandeur gold could buy,
 But Where's that foolish fancy new?

I might have spared those wakeful nights,
 Those days of constant toil and care,
And known as much of fame as now,
 And had of wealth as great a share.

For is it much in point of fame
 That half my neighbors scarce can tell,
When asked of me, what name I bear,
 Or e'en the street wherein I dwell.

And as for grandeur, idle theme,
 How little gold would serve to buy
This plate and board from which to eat,
 This simple bed whereon to lie.

Nor have I trod those pleasant paths,
 Resorts of gaiety and ease,
Where friendship ever has her reign,
 And every thing designed to please.

Yet mine has been no bitter lot,
 No gloomy night without the day
Though clouds were often thick and dark,
 A sunbeam chased them all away.

Some hopes were surely not in vain,
 Some friends have proved themselves as true.
The world was always beautiful,
 A life beyond was kept in view.

And this has made me what I am,
 Contented, trusting One divine,
Yielding to wisdom infinite,
 This selfish, erring will of mine.