Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/65

Rh

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale, Oft let me hear, as oft-times I have heard, Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird, And bee to rest; when summer tints grow pale, Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil, And peasant steps are hastening to repose, And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close To the last whisper of the falling gale. Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound, When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the night 'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.