The Setting Sun
’Tis sweet to trace the setting sun
Wheel blushing down the west;
When his diurnal race is run,
The traveller stops the gloom to shun,
And lodge his bones to rest.
Far from the eye he sinks apace,
But still throws back his light
From oceans of resplendent grace,
Whence sleeping vesper paints her face,
And bids the sun good night.
To those hesperian fields by night
My thoughts in vision stray,
Like spirits stealing into light,
From gloom upon the wing of flight,
Soaring from time away.
Our eagle, with his pinions furl’d,
Takes his departing peep,
And hails the occidental world,
Swift round whose base the globes are whirl’d,
Whilst weary creatures sleep.
