 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
63
Evening Rest
The sun sinks slowly in the crimson West,And waves the welcome signal of repose;
His ploughshare left i' the furrow, the hind goes
With his tired horses to accustomed rest.
To yon tall trees, tufted with many a nest,
The rooks sail o'er the sky: the ringdove knows
His firry roosting-place at daylight's close:
Each creature with some sheltered nook is blest.
And as I too turn to my peaceful home,
Where gentle greetings solace toil and care,
I think of One content awhile to roam
An Exile from high Heav'n; who “had not where
To lay His head”—He, and He only, found
Whose busy days no restful evening crowned.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |