Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Setting Sun

The Setting Sun.

That setting sun! that setting sun!What scenes, since first its race begun,Of varied hue its eye hath seen,Which are as they had never been.

That setting sun! full many a gazeHath dwelt upon its fading raysWith sweet, according thought sublime,In every age and every clime!

'Tis sweet to mark thee, sinking slowThe ocean's fabled caves below;And when th' obscuring night is done,To see thee rise, sweet setting sun.

So, when my pulses cease to play,Serenely close my evening ray,To rise again, death's slumber done,Glorious like thee, sweet setting sun!