Evans-Dale. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

Legend of Evans-Dale.
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The sun pours forth as rich a ray
As ever graced Autumnal day,
And ne'er did clear, and cloudless skies
Wide o'er a lovelier valley rise!
The fair, but gently fading year
Hath slightly touched the foliage green,
Chequering with yellow here, and there
The thick, dark woods that waved between,
Whose leaves luxuriant strive to hide,
The stately castles frowning pride;
Amid whose boughs, no winds are breathing
And the grey mists that erst were wreathing
The spiral mountains brow,
Fall from its lofty verdant side
And as in folds they softly glide
Are fast dispersing now.
Until that hour, ah! who would shun
That valley basking in the sun
Which fast approaching hour of fate,
Leaves all forlorn, and desolate:
Oft hath world weary pilgrim blest
Near the smooth turf that gave him rest,
Yon solitary cross of stone
High on the craggy steep,
With mossy vest half over-grown
And weeds, that round it weep.
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