A stillness now pervades the busy world,
As night approaches with her mantle gray,
The cricket now begins her evening lay,
And all to peace, and quiet sleep, are lull'd.
This is the hour, if bliss is felt below,
For sweet reflection now to make complete,—
Her quiet solitude her calm retreat,—
More of herself, and less of earth to know.
The hour to contemplate the soul's true worth,
When noise and busy care are lull'd away;
The moon comes forth behind her sable gray,
And all the stars begin to sparkle forth.
Now sweet composure calms the mind to rest,
And all is still, save where the distant bell
Dies on the ear, the watch-men cry "all's well,"
Then quiet peace responsive fills the breast.
Here, in an hour of contemplation sweet,
The soul can sing with unmolested ease,
Of future joys, where all may find release
From this vain world, transform'd to joys complete.
This world's a scene of varied light and shade,
Where grief and tears successive cross our way;
But there's a rest where darkness turns to day—
Where sorrow never shall the soul invade.
