Classic Poem

I HAVE stood on the brow of a cloud-capped hill
When the god of day passed on,
And have watched with joy while the daylight died,
And the stars of night were born;
And I love the hour when the eve comes on,
Though the glory of sunset is o'er:
But few are the twilights so sweet to my soul
As the twilight on Beverly Shore.

I have rocked on the deep when the billows slept,
And the shadows of evening fell
O'er the wide, wide waste of the waters blue,
Where is heard no vesper bell;
And my heart rejoiced in the calm, sweet look
Which the star-gemmed waves then wore:
But yet not so dear is that long-cherished scene
As the twilight on Beverly Shore.

'Twas the close of a day when the many chimes,
And the deep-mouthed cannon's roar,
Had ceased till another “Fourth” should dawn,
That I stood near the Beverly Shore.
Far off in the shadow the islands rest,
And the beacon gleams once more,
As Memory presents the sweet scene to my mind
Of that twilight on Beverly Shore.

Sweet friend, who wert with me in that blissful hour,
Dear children, then gathered around,
Your presence endeared the bright vision to me,
And stamped the spot my hallowed ground!
Then gladly I hailed what the artist achieved,
Preserving that scene evermore,
And welcomed the picture fond Memory could claim,
As “Twilight on Beverly Shore.”