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Like eyelids, curtain o'er the orb, whose hour
Of sleep is well nigh come. Oh! 'tis so calm,
So still, so holy, I could think each power
Of sin and sorrow from the earth had flown,
And Peace descending claimed it for her own,
Shedding from out her dove-like wings the balm
Which fills the evening air.
See, how the arrowy dragon-flies dart out!
Now here, now there,
They swiftly flit about;
Restless, as if we roused them from still sleep,
'Mid the tall river grass. Ha! what is that?
Start not—'tis only a poor water-rat
Crossing the river to his nest, that deep
'Neath yon old willow he has burrowed out.
See him, now, steering over;—his long tail
Extended for a rudder; and his route
Leaves on the glassy stream a double trail
Stretching out, fork-like, to the farther bank,
Where, from green nooks of Summer foliage rank,
Peeps Myosotis—fair "Forget-me-not,"
Looking with her bright blue eyes into ours,
As though to ask, if, 'midst earth's rainbowed bowers,
We ever had her gentle face forgot.
The willows and "long purples," too, recall
To fancy's eye the sad and fatal spot
Where poor Ophelia, with her coronal
Of wild-wood flow'rets, fell.
