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| LIST! 1 there is music in the air: | |
| It is the sabbath evening bell, | |
| Chiming the vesper hour of prayer, | |
| O’er the mountain top and lowland dell. | |
| And infancy and age are seen, | 5 |
| Slow winding o’er the church-yard green. | |
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| It is the eve of rest; the light | |
| Still lingers on the moss-grown tower, | |
| While to the drowsy ear of night, | |
| Slowly it marks the evening hour. | 10 |
| ’T is hush’d! and all is silent there, | |
| Save the low, fervent voice of prayer. | |
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| And now far down the quiet vale, | |
| Sweet hymnings on the air float by; | |
| Hushing the whip-poor-will’s sad wail | 15 |
| With its own plaintive melody. | |
| They breathe of peace, like the sweet strains | |
| That swept at night o’er Bethlehem’s plains. | |
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| And heads are bow’d, as the low hymn | |
| Steals through that gray and time-worn pile; | 20 |
| And the altar lights burn faint and dim, | |
| In the long and moss-grown aisle. | |
| And the distant foot-fall echoes loud, | |
| Above that hush’d and kneeling crowd. | |
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| And now beneath the old elm’s shade, | 25 |
| Where the cold moon-beams may not smile; | |
| Bright flowers upon the graves are laid, | |
| And sad tears shed unseen the while. | |
| The last sweet gift affection brings, | |
| To deck the earth to which it clings. | 30 |
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| How beautiful those simple flowers | |
| Strown o’er that silent spot still sleep; | |
| Still wet with summer’s gentle showers, | |
| As if they too could feel and weep! | |
| They fade and die; the wintry wind | 35 |
| Shall leave no trace of them behind! | |
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| The bright new moon hath set: the light | |
| Is fading on the far blue hills; | |
| And on the passing breeze of night, | |
| The music of their thousand rills | 40 |
| Comes echoing through the twilight gray, | |
| With the lone watch-dog’s distant bay. | |
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| The crowd hath pass’d away; the prayer | |
| And low breathed evening hymn are gone; | |
| The cold mist only lingers there, | 45 |
| O’er the dark moss and mouldering stone. | |
| And the stars shine brightly o’er the glen, | |
| Where rest the quiet homes of men. | |
