Even-Tide

What ruddy splendor floods the molten west!
The quiet hills with matchless brilliance burn
Like richest jewels set in liquid gold,
Fit diadem to crown the brow of day.
Through tranquil fields in living glory lapped
The river moves triumphant to the sea;
Fair from the mellow distance, mist defined,
Stand forth sedate, the town's own peaceful spires.
Look up! thou weary one, be not cast down,
For sweet the message of the even-tide.