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A voiceless calm, which seems to say,
The hour is come, that farewell ray
But gilds an opening grave.
As if yon sun still strove to cheer,
With sorrowing beam, the dying year.
The hour is come, that farewell ray
But gilds an opening grave.
As if yon sun still strove to cheer,
With sorrowing beam, the dying year.
Yes, Nature, thy dark hour is nigh,—
Death's hues are on thy brow;
But oh, how still and peacefully
Dost thou in silence bow!
Oh! would that all, when life ebbs fast,
And evening comes, might sink at last
As calm and bright as thou,
Cheered by that light from Heaven which glows
Like thine—the brightest at the close.
Death's hues are on thy brow;
But oh, how still and peacefully
Dost thou in silence bow!
Oh! would that all, when life ebbs fast,
And evening comes, might sink at last
As calm and bright as thou,
Cheered by that light from Heaven which glows
Like thine—the brightest at the close.
E.
Glasslough, October 22, 1836.
