| |
(In Madeira)
A ROSY light the Eastern sky is steeping,— | |
| The ripple on the sea has died away | |
| To a low murmur,—and the ships are sleeping | |
| Each on its glassy shadow in the Bay: | |
| The young moon’s golden shell over the hill | 5 |
| Trembles with lustre, and the trees are still. | |
| |
| The air grows clearer, and her amice blue | |
| The gentle Twilight hath about her cast, | |
| And from her silver urn she sprinkles dew: | |
| Silence and Sleep, twin sisters, follow fast | 10 |
| Her soundless sandals, and where’er she goes | |
| Day-wearied Nature settles to repose. | |
| |
| Hark! the clear bell from that tall convent-tower | |
| Hath sounded,—and, or e’er its echoes die, | |
| Another chime hath rung the vesper hour,— | 15 |
| A farther and a fainter makes reply; | |
| Till far and near the soft appeal to prayer | |
| With music fills the undulating air. | |
| |
| Ye sweet-voiced bells, ring on! Though at your call | |
| I may not breathe in prayer a creature’s name, | 20 |
| Yet on my heart more touching memories fall, | |
| And ye remind me of a holier claim,— | |
| His, whose undrooping eye alone can keep | |
| Watch over His belovèd as they sleep. | |
| |
