O, lovely there is sunset-hour! When twilight falls with soothing power Along the forest-windings dim, And from the thicket, sweet and low, The red-breast tunes a farewell hymn To daylight's latest, lingering glow-- When slope, and rock, and wood around, In all their dreamy, hushed repose, Are glassed adown the bright profound-- And passing fair is evening's close! When from the bright, cerulean dome, The sea-fowl, that have all the day Wheeled o'er the far, lone billows' spray, Come thronging to their eyries home; When over rock and wave, remote, From yon dim fort, the bugle's note Along the listening air doth creep, Seeming to steal down from the sky, Or with out-bursting, martial sweep Rings through the forests, clanging high, While echo waked bears on the strain, Till faint, beyond the trackless main, In realms of space it seems to die. But lovelier still is night's calm noon! When like a sea-nymph's fairy bark, The mirrored crescent of the moon Swings on the waters weltering dark; And in her solitary beam, Upon each bald, storm-beaten height, The quartz and mica wildly gleam, Spangling the rocks with magic light; And when a silvery minstrelsy Is swelling o'er the dim-lit sea, As of some wandering fairy throng, Passing on viewless wing along, Tuning their spirit-lyres to song; And when the night's soft breeze comes out, And for a moment breathes about, Shaking a burst of fresh perfume From every honied bell and bloom, Startling the tall pine from its rest, And sleeping wood-bird in her nest, Or kissing the bright water's breast; Then stealing off into the shade, As if it were a thing afraid! The Indian prized this beauteous spot Of old; beneath the embowering shade He reared his rude and simple cot; And round these wild shores where they played In youth, still--pilgrims from the bourn Of far Penobscot's sinuous stream, Aged and bowed, and weary worn-- Lingering they love to stray, and dream O'er the proud hopes possessed of yore, When forest, isle and mainland shore, For many a league, owned but their sway; When, on the labyrinthine bay, Now checkered o'er with many a sail, Alone his lightsome birch canoe Fast, by the bright, green islets flew, Nor bark spread canvas to the gale. Matchless retreat! mayst aye remain As wild, as natural and free As now thou art; nor hope of gain, Nor enterprize a motive be To lay thy hoary forests low; Gold ne'er can make thy beauties glow, Nor enterprize restore thy pride, When once the monarchs round thy tide, Have felt the exterminating blow. OUR OWN COUNTRY. By James Brooks.