Essex County herald. [volume] (Guildhall, Vt.) 1873-1964, 1885-10-16
VOL. XIII.
WHEN EVENING C0METH ON,
When evening cometh on,


The fsne-like purple-shadowed clouds arise;
Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh;
Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes
The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly
Swift through the radiant vault; the deld-lark cries
His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands
OF misty silence cross the far-of lands
When evening cOmeth on.
When evening cometh on,
peeper and DREAMER grows the slumberlng dell,
Darker and drearier spreads the bristling void,
Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell
In moveless waves against the shimmering gold.
Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that
dwell
Unseen by day, come througing forth to hold
Their neeting hour of revel, and by the pool
Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool,
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Along their well-known paths with heavier tread
The sad-eyed, lettering kline unurged return;
The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led,
Wend beating to the hills, so well they learn
Where Natures hand their wholesome couch
hath spread.
And through the purpling mist the moon doth
yearn
Pale,gentle radiance, dear recurring dream,
Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam,
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
oosed from the days long toll, the clanking
With halting steps pass on their jostling ways,
Their gearings glinted by the waning beams;
Close by their heels the he dful collie strays;
All slowly fading in land of dreams,
Transfgured specters of the shrouding haze.
Thus from lifes field the hearts fond hope doth
fade,
Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade,
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Across the dotted fields of gathered grain
The soul of summer breathes deep repose,
Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain,
And from the blurred and Blended brake there
The unduatng echoes of some strain
Once heard in paradise, perchaRce-who knows?
But now the whispering memory sadly strays
Along the DIM rows of the rustling maize
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Anon there spreads upon the lingering air
The musk Of weedy slopes and grasses dank,
And odors from far fields, unseen but fair,
With scent of flowers from many shadowy bank
Oh, lost Eysium, art thou hiding there?
Flows yet that crystal stream whereof drank,
All, wild-eyed Memory, fly from nights despairt
Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight OF
care
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on
No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest
The settling gloom that creeps by wood and
stream,
The bars that lie along the smouderng west,
The tall and lonely silent trees that seem
To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest
This waverng flame, this agonizing dream,
All, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain,
And eyermore llGes struggle seemeth vain
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown,
In darkness reaching out her sentient hands,
PHILOSOPHERS and creeds alike are thrown
Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands
Close on the brink, unfearing and alone,
And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands,
Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears,
SO lonely and so sad the sound she hears
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Vain seems the world, and vainer wise mans
thought.
| All colors vanish when the sun goeth down.
Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath
caught
| No better seems than doth the earth-stained gowT
Worn by Content All names shall be forgot.
| Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown.
The fair enchantment of the golden day
Far through the vale of shadows melt away
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul,
And smooth thoughts racklng fever from tn
brow;
The wounded heart Love only can console.
Whatever brings balm for sorrow now,
So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll,
Take then the portion which the gods allow.
Dear heart, may l at last on thy warm breast
Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest
When evening cometh on?
Robert Burns Wilson, in Harper'S