Caroline Fry (Wilson)

Evening

WE walk'd by the side
   Of the tranquil stream,
That the sun had tinged
   With his parting beam;
The water was still,
   And so crystal clear,
That every spray
   Had its image there.

And every reed
   That o'er it bow'd,
And the crimson streak,
   And the silvery cloud,
And all that was bright,
   And all that was fair,
And all that was gay,
   Was reflected there.

And they said it was like
   To the chasten'd breast,
That religion soothes
   To a holy rest;
When sorrow has tam'd
   The impassion'd eye,
And the bosom reflects
   Its expected sky.

But I took a stone
   That lay beside,
And I cast it far
   On the glassy tide;
And gone was the charm
   Of the pictur'd scene,
And the sky so bright,
   And the landscape green.

And I bade them mark
   How an idle word,
Too lightly said,
   And too deeply heard,
Or a harsh reproof,
   Or a look unkind,
May spoil the peace
   Of the heavenly mind.

Though sweet be the peace,
   And holy the calm,
And the heavenly beam
   Be bright and warm;
The heart that it gilds
   Is all as weak
As the wave that reflects
   The crimson streak.

You cannot impede
   The celestial ray,
That lights the dawn
   Of eternal day;
But so may you trouble
   The bosom it cheers,
'Twill cease to be true
   To the image it bears.