12020-08-15T09:07:04-04:00Amardeep Singhc185e79df2fca428277052b90841c4aba30044e11822plain2020-09-17T14:28:33-04:00Amardeep Singhc185e79df2fca428277052b90841c4aba30044e1This line from Thomas Campbell comes from his 1799 poem, "The Pleasures of Hope."
12020-08-15T09:08:40-04:00Evening in August4plain2021-03-28T12:19:10-04:00 "And muse on nature with a Poet's eye." -CampbellCampbell
Roll on, fair Ganges!—What a noble stream! And on its bosom the last, lingering beam Of the red, setting sun serenely lies, Smiling, like Hope's last ray—and then it dies! And O! the clouds—what colours they display, Sport for a while, then melt in air away! Like thoughts in dreams, which o'er the passive mind All fitful flit, and leave no trace behind.
The sun sets on a bank, whose yellow sand All brightly glows; as if an angel's hand Had scattered gold there, heedless of the worth That gold hath gained among the sons of earth. There is a fisher's boat beside that shore; 'Tis sleeping on the wave—the weary oar Is laid at rest; and he who plied is gone With his small 'scaly spoil', to meet the one Whom 'tis his joy to meet. O Love! thou art The master of the poorest humblest heart.
A light breeze hath disturbed the water's breast, Like a remembrance waking thoughts at rest; It seems as if in fleeting thus away, It had extinguished the sun's parting ray. What holy silence gathers now around! All, all is still, save the small silver sound Which issues from the wave that wanders by, Soft as an angel's harp, or maiden's sigh: O! I could listen to it till my soul In boundless floods of ecstacy might roll.
Night's shadows are descending; twilight dies; The bird unto its leafy covert flies; The crescent moon is rising pale; the dew Falls like a blessing; and there are a few Small, bright, and sparkling stars in yonder heaven— Islands of bliss, abodes for the forgiven!
It is an hour of watchfulness and thought; It is the chosen season when are wrought The fairest pictures ever Fancy drew; 'Tis Love's delicious hour, when Love is new, When soft words poured into a maiden's ear Melt in her soul, and she delights to hear The oft repeated vows of truth and faith To be preserved inviolate till death! Now spirits are abroad, and on the green Dance the light fairies round their playful queen: They dance, but leave no footprints on the grass, And when 'tis morn, like thoughts, away they pass; And then each hies her to her elfin bower, A shrub's green leaf, or petal of a flower.-- I'm loath to leave this spot. --