Lying awake at holy eventide

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!