The noontide sunshine of the past, These brief, bright moments fading fast, The stars that gild our darkening years, The twilight ray from holier spheres; We thank thee, Father! let thy grace Our narrowing circle still embrace, Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, Thy peace be with us evermore! EVEN-SONG. 1870 IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train Of Autumn's burdened wain,-- Time, that is heir of all our earthly state, And knoweth well to wait Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea, If so it need must be, Ere he make good his claim and call his own Old empires overthrown,-- Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large To hold its fee in charge, Nor any motes that fill its beam so small, But he shall care for all,-- It may be, must be,--yes, he soon shall tire This hand that holds the lyre. Then ye who listened in that earlier day When to my careless lay I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill, With untaught rudest skill Vexing a treble from the slender strings Thin as the locust sings When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat Pipes from its leafy seat, The dim pavilion of embowering green Beneath whose shadowy screen The small sopranist tries his single note Against the song-bird's throat, And all the echoes listen, but in vain; They hear no answering strain,-- Then ye who listened in that earlier day Shall sadly turn away, Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth is cold That warmed our blood of old; Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands, And let us stretch our hands Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame; Lo, this is not the same, The joyous singer of our morning time, Flushed high with lusty rhyme! Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart, But whisper him apart,-- Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed And all their birds have fled, And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests They warmed with patient breasts; Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er, And bid him sing no more!" Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind A listening ear might find! But who that hears the music in his soul Of rhythmic waves that roll Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow Stir all the deeps below Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach Leap glistening on the beach,-- Who that has known the passion and the pain, The rush through heart and brain, The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed Hard on his throbbing breast, When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame Hast set his pulse aflame, Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee? Alas! and must it be?