Above the hill and tide.
Above yon Blue Ridge, towering piles,
Uptorn by Nature's throe—
He speeds, he speeds, through myriad miles,
To his meridian glow.
The birds sink down, amid the copse,
And sing a feeble song;
At last, each sound, on sudden, stops,
And Silence holds the throng.
But Evening, comes, a sober maid,