HILL-SIDE FLOWERS.

Hope.

THERE is an evening-twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lull'd to

rest,

And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, As fades the day-beam in the rosy West. 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away, And fondly would we bid them linger yet, But Hope is round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight-hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow, Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of

morn,

With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue,

Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too,—on the eye, Half realized, her early dreams burst bright; Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lower the thunderstorm,

And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of

summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her

now;

That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness

Which the heart worships, glowing on her

brow;

That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death.