Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635/Rest


Beneath the western heaven's span
     Has sunk the golden day;
The clouds' rich sunset hues and tints
     Have died in shade away;
The dim night comes from out the east
     With gloom and vapour gray.

The stars far in the sky's blue depths
     Their vigils 'gin to keep;
The moon above yon eastern hill
     Climbs up the lofty steep;
The night-winds steal with gentle wing
     Above the flowers asleep.

The birds upon the tuneless spray
     Have folded close their wings;
And to the silent night alone
     The winding river sings:
Its song is of the woods and meads,
     A hundred happy things.

No voice is in the tranquil air,
     No murmur save its own;
The earth is hushed as heaven above,
     Where, girt with cloudy zone,
The moon goes up among the stars
     To take her ebon throne.
Sweet calm, and undisturbed repose,
     O'er all the landscape rest;
Yet is there in the breathless scene
     A voice which thrills the breast,
A something, which in thanks and love
     May only be expressed.

Chambers' Journal.