Eliza Acton


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The hour when Fancy, and Remembrance, weave
Their fairest tissue of enchanted dreams.

Twilight! still season of deep communings,
And holiest hopes, and tears of tenderness,
Which soothe the soul in falling, as the dew
Freshens the fading flower, how sweet, and dear,
To me, the shadow of thy coming is !--
Beneath the magic of thy soothing spell,
The wilder throbbings of my heart grow hush'd
Almost to peacefulness; while from my mind
Departs the hurried fever, which doth wear
Its powers away amid life's busier scenes,

And I awake to soft imaginings,--
And gentle thoughts,--and mingled memories,
Of sadness, and delight.--Oh! Joy may love
The brilliant beaming of the morning sun,
When the full splendour of his living rays
Kindles the Eastern heav'n; but unto me,
The faintest ling'ring of his farewell gleam
Is far more beautiful,--for it doth give.
A promise of that touching quietude,--
--Thine own peculiar charm,--with which thou still
Dost herald in the night!

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Eliza Acton