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EVENING.
It is the hour of eve. The orb of day
Being gone, the lamps of night in mellow radiance come;
As when in some cathedral's gorgeous dome.
The evening hymn being done, the awful ray
That 'lumined the high altar's sacred space
Departing, leaves the lesser lights to throw
Throughout the sombre aisles a misty glow.
How in the compass of a day we trace
The picture of a life? The morn, like youth,
With light, and calm, and promise filled; the noon,
Like later years, when passions rage, full soon
To drive the wise to balmy fonts of truth;
The eve like age, when, seeing all earth bleak.
On high men look, their guiding lights to seek.
