Роберт Андерсон (Robert Anderson)

Evening

How sweet 'tis to rove at the close of the day,
O'er daisy--clad meads, by a soft murm'ring rill,
When the thrush from the brake pours his evening love lay,
And Sol's parting beams tinge the furze--cover'd hill;
When the rustic's loud laugh tells a heart void of care,
With the maid of his bosom delighted to roam;
When eager the joys of his cottage to share,
The labourer wearied, thinks long for his home.

Now wrapt up in mist is the mountain's steep brow;
No longer the din of the village is heard;
Now lost is the landscape, late beauteous to view;
No sound strikes the ear, save one sorrowful bird:
'Tis the partridge's wail, for his far--distant mate--
Let man learn affection from each feather'd pair,
And reflect on the days he has spent, ere too late;
Still thankful, midst sorrows, for blessings that were.

In life's rosy morn, full of frolic and joy,
Light--hearted, in quest of new pleasures we fly,
Till noon brings its cares, many a hope to destroy,
And the thoughts of the past will oft force a deep sigh:
Eve steals on apace, and oft finds us in tears,
For in friendship, in love, constant changes we see;
Each wound of the heart deeper grows with our years,
And the evening of life's seldom tranquil or free.

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