Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Eventide

Eventide.

O sweet is Nature's quiet hour,When twilight shadows peaceful fallAround the scene, while soft reposeAnd hallowed thoughts are felt by all.

The busy din of work is stilled,And wearied men their labours cease,For pleasant thoughts of those at 'home,Like twilight hours bring dreams of peace.

So from the outer world our homeLike twilight's peaceful calm should be,For why should aught save sweet contentOur fireside circle ever see.

When avaricious thoughts precludeThe better feelings of man's breast,To kindly feelings he is dead,And mammon ne'er will give him rest.

There is a little cosy nook,A somebody that waits for me;That for whose smile of sweet content,The heartless miser I'd ne'er be.

For his proud dwelling I'd not changeMy humble cosy little cot,And for his wealth I would not giveOne merry laugh from Little Dot.