Classic Poem

How deep and mournfully at eve's sweet hour,
The bell for Vespers chimes its holiest note;
When the soft twilight lends its soothing power,
And through the air a stillness seems to float!
The weary wanderer knows a home of rest,
He toils not now who toiled the livelong day,
Friends cherish fondest recollections, blest
With thoughts of those whose love cannot decay.

The best affections of the heart are told,
We greet with joy our dear domestic hearth,
And think how strong the twining cords which hold
Unwearied love to transient things of earth!
And visions of his lyre the poet sees,
At that lone time of nature's sweet repose,
When fancied music, borne on every breeze,
Æolian-like with thrilling sadness flows.

Oh! then move thoughts the holiest and best
O'er the soul's calm and mild serenity;
Like beauteous birds which skim along the breast
Of the still waters in some waveless sea.
Where that deep bell sends forth its solemn tone,
How many worship at the shrine!
How many voices come before the throne,
Whence the bright glories of the Godhead shine!

Not when the beauties of the opening day
With crimson blushes usher in the dawn;
Not when the noontide pours its deepest ray
On forest glade, blue lake, and verdant lawn;
Not when the moonbeams stream their silvery light,
In richest gushings, over copse and dell,
Come pure devotion's thoughts and fancies bright,
As when at evening sounds the Vesper Bell.