NIGHT ON THE TWEED.
LIGHT lingers—but the world is cold— The mists along the river slowly creep, The dull trees, heavy with their weight of sleep, Their leaves around them closely fold.
Fast falls the night,—the thickening shadows grow, And like a lifeless mass the great Earth lies ; No sound is here, except the night-bird's cries, Nor motion, but the river's sluggish flow.
There the black city holds its silent place, The flitting lights have vanished one by one ; The crowded thousands, with their day's work done, Are slumbering somewhere in its dark embrace.
The light is gone, and darkness covers all,—
The river-mists, the trees, the distant hills, The sobbing of the tiny mountain rills,— Darkness has fallen o'er them as a pall.
The hours creep on,—lo ! quivering light-beams pass. From reed to reed along the river shore ; The birds are whispiring that the night is o'er, The silent river gleams like tinted glass.
The West is glimmering,—greys and reds and blues, Growing to splendour like a thing divine ; And in the East, over the mountain line, Comes morning, floating on a thousand hues.
HENRY W. Tnoirsos.
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