Lying awake at holy eventide,
While in clear mournfulness the throstle’s hymn
Hushes the night, and the great west, grown dim,
Laments the sunset’s evanescent pride:
Lo! I behold an orb of silver brightly
Grow from the fringe of sunset, like a dream
From Thought’s severe infinitude, and nightly
Show forth God’s glory in its sacred gleam.
Ah, Hesper! maidenliest star that ere
Twinkled in firmament! cool gloaming’s prime
Cheerer, whose fairness maketh wondrous fair
Old pastorals, and the Spenserian rhyme:—
Thy soft seduction doth my soul enthral
Like music, with a dying, dying fall!