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Gilding her lovely scenes with melting light,
And tints of varied hue, so fair and bright,
That every heart must feel the moment's power,
And own thy magic charm, oh, loveliest hour!
There Jordan's distant waves roll clear and bright,
Bach rippling billow glows with golden light,
And hill and vale—the torrent sweeping by—
The olive woods—the smiling earth and sky—
The cool and fragrant breeze, which bears along
In mournful notes the bird of evening's song—
The spicy sweets that fill the perfumed air,—
All, all combine to form a scene so fair,
So soft and calm, that e'en the aching breast
Must feel its sorrows lulled awhile to rest,
And wakening hope a ray of comfort fling,
To gild the darkest spot on Memory's wing.
And tints of varied hue, so fair and bright,
That every heart must feel the moment's power,
And own thy magic charm, oh, loveliest hour!
There Jordan's distant waves roll clear and bright,
Bach rippling billow glows with golden light,
And hill and vale—the torrent sweeping by—
The olive woods—the smiling earth and sky—
The cool and fragrant breeze, which bears along
In mournful notes the bird of evening's song—
The spicy sweets that fill the perfumed air,—
All, all combine to form a scene so fair,
So soft and calm, that e'en the aching breast
Must feel its sorrows lulled awhile to rest,
And wakening hope a ray of comfort fling,
To gild the darkest spot on Memory's wing.
But see! where, on Mount Peor's lofty brow,
In purple hues the evening sunbeams glow,
Again, again, those sevenfold mystic fives
Now lift on high their bright and wavy spires:
Oh! can it be, though twice refused before,
That Moab's monarch dares again to pour
His impious prayer to Him whose sleepless love
Had made the threatened curse a blessing prove,
And caused the cloud that seemed so dark with wrath
To shed but gladness o'er his Israel's path?
'Tis true, alas! Once more the altars rise:
The flames ascending greet the darkening skies.
And now the rites are o'er—the offerings slain;
But Balaam dares not tempt the Lord again:
He sees no power of earth or hell can stay
In purple hues the evening sunbeams glow,
Again, again, those sevenfold mystic fives
Now lift on high their bright and wavy spires:
Oh! can it be, though twice refused before,
That Moab's monarch dares again to pour
His impious prayer to Him whose sleepless love
Had made the threatened curse a blessing prove,
And caused the cloud that seemed so dark with wrath
To shed but gladness o'er his Israel's path?
'Tis true, alas! Once more the altars rise:
The flames ascending greet the darkening skies.
And now the rites are o'er—the offerings slain;
But Balaam dares not tempt the Lord again:
He sees no power of earth or hell can stay
