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THE SONG AT TWILIGHT

BY L. M. DAVIDSON.

When evening spreads her shades around,

And darkness fills the arch of heaven; When not a murmur, not a sound,

To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,

And looks around with golden eye; When Nature, softened by her light,

Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above

This world, and all this world can give, 0, sister, sing the song I love,

And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core,

And, hovering, trembles half afraid, O, sister, sing the song once more,

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

THE SONG AT TWILIGHT.

83

"T were almost sacrilege to sing

Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing,

And wafted by their breath away.

When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,

Shouldst thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,

And, sister, sing the song I love ?

THE SONG AT TWILIGHT

BY L. M. DAVIDSON.

When evening spreads her shades around,

And darkness fills the arch of heaven; When not a murmur, not a sound,

To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,

And looks around with golden eye; When Nature, softened by her light,

Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above

This world, and all this world can give, O, sister, sing the song I love,

And tears of gratitude receive.

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THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.

BY 1. M'L E L LAN, JR.

WELL do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the Summer-time,
And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life; If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss Of brethren gone to that far-distant land To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, The gayest and the gravest, all alikeThen turn into the peaceful woods, and hear The thrilling music of the forest birds.

How rich the varied choir. The unquiet finch Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs

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