LXXV.
In such an hour are told the hermit’s beads;
With the white sail the seaman’s hymn floats by:
Peace be with all! whate’er their varying creeds,
With all that send up holy thoughts on high!
Come to me, boy! By Guadalquiver’s vines,
By every stream of Spain, as day declines,
Man’s prayers are mingled in the rosy sky.
We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child!
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild.