SUNSET.

See with what pomp the golden sun goes down Behind yon purple mountain!—far and wide His mellow radiance streams; the steep hill-side Is clothed with splendor, and the distant town Wears his last glory like a blazing crown. We cannot see him now, and yet his fire Still lingers on the city's tallest spire,— Chased slowly upward by the gathering frown Of the approaching darkness. God of light! Thou leavest us in gloom,—but other eyes Watch thy faint coming now in distant skies:— There drooping flowers spring up, and streams grow bright, And singing birds plume their moist wings for flight, And stars grow pale and vanish from the sight!