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.
Atkinson
THE OLD FARM GATE.
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,
