SONNET.

The sun is slowly sinking in the West;

The plough lies idle, and the weary team,

Cool'd with the freshness of the shallow stream,

Over the meadows hasten to their rest;

The breeze is hush'd, and no more turns the mill,

With its light sails upon yon rising crest;

Its busy music now awhile is still,

And not a sound heaves up from Nature's breast;

The barks upon the river smoothly ride,

With sails all furl'd, and flags that listless fall,

Unrock'd, unshaken by the flowing tide;

The cattle lazy lie within the stall;

And thus the Time-stream on doth sweetly glide,

Bearing repose and slumber unto all.