A fragrance in our path no more shall fling;
Yet there’s a foretaste pure of joys divine,
A quiet, holy calm in life’s decline,
A moonlight of the soul in mercy given
To light the pilgrim to the gates of Heaven.
1824. E. P. K.
THE EVENING STAR.
Hail, pensile gem, that thus can softly gild
The starry coronal of quiet eve!