16 APRIL 1881, Page 12

POETRY.

TWILIGHT.

Now, tender Twilight lays a cooling palm, In gentlest blessing, on Earth's fevered brow, Soothing her into silence,—save for low, Sweet warblings, rippling o'er the utter calm, Of birds, outpouring their soft evening psalm. Still—as some wearied soul, half-dimm'd in death, Scarce seeming e'en to breathe, so faint each breath— She lies, this Earth. The limpid dew, like balm, Falls ou her fondly with a mute caress ; While the low wind 'mid the laburnum strays, And with its drooping locks onamour'd plays, Parting with ling'ring touch each golden tress, As loth to leave it in its loveliness,—

And all things wait the night, which still delays. Zos.