How sweet the hour when daylight blends With the pensive shadows on evening's breast! And dear to the heart is the pleasure it lends; 'Tis like the departure of saints to their rest.
O, 'tis sweet, Saranac, on thy loved banks to stray, To watch the last day-beam dance light on thy wave, To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay,[1] Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave.
O, 'tis sweet to a heart unentangled and light, When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is blest, To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright, And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest.
↑Cumberland Bay, the scene of a battle during the last war.
