Classic Poem

Now day departing in the west,
With gaudy splendor lures the eye;
The sun, declining, sinks to rest,
And Ev'ning overshades the sky.

And is the green extended lawn,
The waving grove — the flow'ry mead,
The charms of hill and dale withdrawn,
And all their blooming beauties hid?

They are — but lift alost thine eye,
Where all these sparkling glories roll;
Those mighty wonders of the sky,
That glad and elevate the soul.

Day's undisguis'd essulgent blaze
Adorns the Mead, or Mountain blue;
But Night, amid her train, displays
Whole worlds revolving to the view.

Lone Contemplation, musing deep,
This vast stupendous vault explores;
These rolling Orbs — the roads they keep,
And Night's great Architect adores.

Nor mourns the absent glare of day,
The glitt'ring mead, or warbler's song;
For what are birds, or meadows gay,
To all that dazzling, starry throng.

So, when the Saint's calm Eve draws nigh,
With joy the voice of death he hears;
Heav'n opes upon his wond'ring eye,
And Earth's poor vision disappears.