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The sun descending in the West, |
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The evening star does shine; |
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The birds are silent in their nest, |
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And I must seek for mine. |
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The moon, like a flower |
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In heaven's high bower, |
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With silent delight, |
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Sits and smiles on the night. |
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Farewell, green fields and happy groves, |
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Where flocks have took delight, |
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Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves |
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The feet of angels bright; |
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Unseen, they pour blessing, |
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And joy without ceasing, |
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On each bud and blossom, |
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And each sleeping bosom. |
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They look in every thoughtless nest |
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Where birds are covered warm; |
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They visit caves of every beast, |
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To keep them all from harm: |
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If they see any weeping |
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That should have been sleeping, |
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They pour sleep on their head, |
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And sit down by their bed. |
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When wolves and tigers howl for prey, |
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They pitying stand and weep; |
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Seeking to drive their thirst away, |
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And keep them from the sheep. |
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But, if they rush dreadful, |
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The angels, most heedful, |
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Receive each mild spirit, |
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New worlds to inherit. |
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And there the lion's ruddy eyes |
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Shall flow with tears of gold: |
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And pitying the tender cries, |
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And walking round the fold: |
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Saying: 'Wrath by His meekness, |
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And, by His health, sickness, |
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Is driven away |
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From our immortal day. |
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'And now beside thee, bleating lamb, |
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I can lie down and sleep, |
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Or think on Him who bore thy name, |
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Graze after thee, and weep. |
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For, washed in life's river, |
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My bright mane for ever |
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Shall shine like the gold, |
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As I guard o'er the fold |
