It is the hour of eve. The orb of day
⁠Being gone, the lamps of night in mellow radiance come;
⁠As when in some cathedral's gorgeous dome.
The evening hymn being done, the awful ray
That 'lumined the high altar's sacred space
⁠Departing, leaves the lesser lights to throw
⁠Throughout the sombre aisles a misty glow.
How in the compass of a day we trace
The picture of a life? The morn, like youth,
⁠With light, and calm, and promise filled; the noon,
⁠Like later years, when passions rage, full soon
To drive the wise to balmy fonts of truth;
⁠The eve like age, when, seeing all earth bleak.
⁠On high men look, their guiding lights to seek.