t Pttgan f r ps The day is done, and tbe darkness Falla from the wings of Night, As a feather im watted dowuward Frora un eagle in his flight. I seo the Hghts of the villaje Gr-íeíim through the rain amid the miat, And a foeliug of sadness comes o'er me, That mj soul cimnot resist. A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only, Aa tlie iuist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some (ifanplf and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old mastors, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial mnaic, Their mighty thought snggest Life'a endless toil and endeavor ; And to-night I loog to rest. Kead from some humbler poet, Whoso songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the cloud of sunimer, Or tears from the eyelids sart ; Who, through Tong days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the ïimsic Of wonderfnl mclodiesSuch songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like tfce benediction Tliat follows after prayerThen read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lcnd to the rhyine of the poet The beauty of thy toice-. And the night shall be filled with music, And thtf cares, that inïest the day, Shall fold their teuta, likc the Arabs, And as silently steal away.