Oh! soothing hour, when glowing day,
    Low in the western wave declines,
And village murmurs die away,
    And bright the vesper planet shines;

I love to hear the gale of Even
    Breathing along the new-leaf'd copse,
And feel the freshening dew of Heaven,
    Fall silently in limpid drops.

For, like a friend's consoling sighs,
    That breeze of night to me appears;
And, as soft dew from Pity's eyes,
    Descend those pure celestial tears.

Alas! for those who long have borne,
    Like me, a heart by sorrow riven,
Who, but the plaintive winds, will mourn,
    What tears will fall, but those of Heaven?