Anonymous British

Sunset Thoughts

How beautiful the setting sun Reposes o'er the wave! Like Virtue, life's drear warfare done, Descending to the grave; Yet smiling with a brow of love, Benignant, pure, and kind, And blessing, ere she sours above, The realms she leaves behind. The cloudlets, edged with crimson light, Veil o'er the blue serene, While swift the legions of the night, Are shadowing o'er the scene. The sea-gull, with a wailing moan, Up starting, turns to seek Its lonely dwelling-place, upon The promontory's peak. The heaving sea -- the distant hill -- The waning sky -- the woods -- With melancholy musing fill The swelling heart, that broods Upon the light of other days, Whose glories now are dull, And on the visions Hope could raise, Vacant, but beautiful! Where are the bright illusions vain, That fancy boded forth? Sunk to their silent caves again, Aurorae of the North: Oh! who would live those visions o'er, All brilliant though they seem, Since earth is but a desert shore, And life a weary dream. First found in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, May 1823.