Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/260

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
256
W. O. P. Peabody.
For every fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks aloneAround the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come, And Nature's self to dust return;Her crumbling altars must decay; Her incense fires shall cease to burn;But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow;For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

 Behold the western evening light! It melts in deepening gloom:So calmly Christians sink away, Descending to the tomb.
The wind breathes low; the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree;So gently flows the parting breath, When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed!'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud The sunset beam is cast!'Tis like the memory left behind When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night, The yellow star appears;So faith springs in the heart of those Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.