As gloaming was drawing

As gloaming was drawing her veil o'er the mountains,

And tinging with azure the far distant hill;

And, save the small rills from the moss-cover'd fountains,

The lone face of nature was silent and still.

How sweetly the stream of the valley meander'd,

And sweet was the scent of the hoar hawthorn tree;

Thus allured by the beauties of nature I wander'd

To where the small streamlet was lost in the sea.

And there sat a maiden, lamenting her lover,

Responsive she sigh'd to the slow-heaving wave:

"Thy cares and thy sorrows, dear Edward, are over,"

She said, "Though the wild weltering deep is thy grave."

Oh, thine was a bosom once fraught with affection,

Yes, thine was a heart that to friendship was dear;

Pure virtue has found in thy bosom protection,—

Thy bright eye to pity denied not a tear.

Oh, hope, gentle hope, thou art gone, yes, for ever,

No more thy bright bcims can illumine my mind;

For in this lone bosom shall flourish for ever

Wild stems of despair with distraction entwined.

Roll slowly, roll slowly, thou dark-heaving billow,

Roll slowly along o'er the bed of the brave;

Oh, move not his head from his soft sandy pillow,

But heave the soft sea-weeds along by his grave.

And mine be the task in the stillness of gloaming,

To view the smooth waters that cover his bed;

And when the winds blow and the billows are foaming,

Oh, then shall the tears of remembrance be shed.