When sunset was tinting each shadowy hollow ’Twas gladness, the kine, from the pasture, to follow And dream, as I wandered, of fairy and gnome— To loiter ’mong ferns, with great trees spreading over, And breathe the perfume of wild roses and clover Enrapt, until mother called home. I’m lingering now on the banks of the River— The sunset of Time on its ripples a-quiver— How peaceful the flowing—no turmoil or foam— A luminous mist o’er the landscape is falling— The evening has come, I hear a voice calling,— ’Tis mother’s voice calling me home. Eoline’s Dream. One long day of toil was ending, And my head was hot with pain When a thought, akin to envy, Racing thro’ my throbbing brain, Muttered to my fevered fancy “Only wealth has power to please— Rocking in the lap of riches Life were fair as summer seas.” Wealth for me would bridge the ocean, Open Europe’s storied lore, Rome and Greece, with art and beauty, Each would open wide her door; These my hungering soul had longed for— Oft they seemed within my clasp, But like gold beneath the rainbow They escaped my eager grasp. How I spurned the homely hangings That in poverty were wrought, E’en the couch, whose dingy plushings Now in weariness I sought. “Common things,” I said, repining, “Ne’er for me can blessing hold”; But the Sun, just then declining, Flooded all with molten gold. And a benison, descending On the wings of closing day, Soothed and hushed my wild complaining— Drove the evil sprite away— Brought before me _my_ possessions, Richest in the long array, Wealth of home, where all my dear ones Make it bright with love, alway. Lightly drooped the shining fringes Of the evening’s twilight hour, While the playful, roving zephyr Gently kissed each folding flower; Softly gliding into dreamland On the sunset’s gilded car, Soon for me, his golden splendor Wrapped all objects, near and far. In his grand effulgent shimmer “Common things,” grew strangely bright; And my home became a palace All resplendent in the light; E’en the russet garb of labor, If unstained by deed of shame, There outshone imperial purple, With its throne and titled name. Sweeter than the grand exotics, Were my lillies, pure and white— All was beauty—all about me Whispered to me—“Life is bright,” And its sweetest flowers are blooming In the toil-worn paths of earth, And its purest gems will sparkle On the brow of honest worth. Diamonds, oft, are but the tear-drops Avarice wrings from orphaned trust, And his gorgeous, gilded trappings Steal their hues from hearts he’s crushed. More I saw in raptured dreaming— Seraphs holding crowns of gold, Beckoning up the shining pathway Where the gates of Rest unfold.