O deep-lying valleys and endless hills,
Realms of the West!
What glory unsullied that country fills
Where the sun doth rest.
How vivid those peaks which no mist doth mar,
By human foot untrod,
And the sea of splendour which floats, till afar
It envelops the throne of God!

Blest moments of evening! What hours are ye worth,
For 'tis ye disclose,
Though faintly, the land where the weary of Earth
In peace repose.
Ye open the country with charmid wand
Where eternal beauty gleams,
And whisper of glories unseen beyond
Of which only an Angel dreams.

Those hills are too distant to echo the song
Which comes from the vales,
Unseen are the skiffs which those streams bear along
With snow-white sails;
But a gentle breeze from those far-off bowers
Sinks fainting from above
And whispers its tales to the languishing flowers,
Till they droop with excess of love.

But the first faint star in the Heavens grey
Is gathering light;
And the earth is exchanging the sceptre of Day
For the sway of Night;
That mountain hath dropped its garment of gold
Deep into yon emerald sea,
The mantle of Evening sinks fold by fold,
And the vision is lost to me.