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

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256
W. O. P. Peabody.
For every fire that fronts the sun,
 And every spark that walks alone
Around 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.

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