 | Poems |  |
62
SONNET.
['Tis sweet to stand at the still, evening hour]
'Tis sweet to stand at the still, evening hourWithin some ruin'd abbey's time-worn walls,
When pensive thought each mental sense enthrals,
And by-gone memories have a voice of power.
To muse, 'mid that deep silence, o'er the doom
Of those that slumber in that solitude,
The proud, the meek, the guilty, and the good,
All mouldering in one undistinguish'd tomb;
Or when the shadows deepen, and on high,
The pale moon's rays thro' the tall arches gleam,
'Tis sweet to fancy each pure, silvery beam,
An angel, speeding from the far blue sky,
To warn against the world's unmeaning strife,
And all the worthless vanity of life.
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