EVENING.
HOW like a tender mother,
With loving thoughts beguiled,
Fond Nature seems to lull to rest
Each faint and weary child!
Drawing the curtain tenderly,
Affectionate and mild.
Hark to the gentle lullaby
That through the trees is creeping,—
Those sleepy trees that nod their heads
Ere the moon as yet comes peeping,
Like a tender nurse to see if all
Her little ones are sleeping.
One little fluttering bird,
Like a child in a dream of pain,
Has chirped and started up,
Then nestled down again;
Oh! A bird and a child, as they sink to rest,
Are as like as any twain.
Charlotte Young.