Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/58

Close wrapped within his mantle fold
Of glowing purple dipped in gold;
Or else to mark the queen of night,
Like some lone vestal, pure and bright,
Steal slowly from her silent nook,
And gild the scenes that he forsook.

And then, that deep recess to find,
Where the green boughs so close are twined;
For there, within that silent spot,
As all secluded, all forgot,
The fond enthusiast free may soar,
The sage be buried in his lore,
The poet muse, the idler sleep,
The pensive mourner bend and weep,
And fear no eye or footstep rude
Shall break that holy solitude.
Unless some viewless angel-guest,
Who guards the spirits of the just,
Might seek among the rising sighs,
To gather incense for the skies,
Or hover o'er that hallowed sod,
To raise the mortal thought to God.

O gentle scene, whose transient sight
So wakes my spirit to delight,
Where kindness, love, and joy unite,
That though no words the rapture speak,
The tear must tremble on the cheek,