The Evening Star

But ever at this mellow time,
He should thy autumn praise prolong,
As they would share the happy prime
Of thy eternal song.

How blest I've felt on summer eves,
When resting on a stile,
Half hid in hazel's moistening leaves,
So weary after toil!

And gazing on the Evening Star,
That shed its ruddy light
Like joys, which something came to mar,
Retreating out of sight.

O'er the wood-corner's sombre brown,
The lamp of dewy eve,
No sooner up than sloping down,
Seemed always taking leave.

Yet 'tis a lovely sight to see,
And beautiful the time
It shines in heaven's canopy
At evening's gentle prime.

Akin to images and things
That glad the quiet mind,
A calmness o'er the heart it flings,
That poets love to find.

It shines o'er sheep within the fold,
O'er shepherds whistling home;
The plough lies in the fallow mould,
The horse is free to roam.

'Tis welcome to the weary breast,
Tt sweetens life's employ,
It sees the labourer to his rest,
The lover to his joy.

The wanderer seeks his easy chair,
The light is in his cot,
His Evening Star is shining there,
And troubles are forgot.

It looks on many a happy place,
Where lovers steal to meet;
It gilds the milkmaid's ruddy face,
While on her rustic seat.

Upon the old tree in the glen,
That by the hovel lay,
The shepherd there had set his pen,
And whistled on his way.