Companions of his ceaseless toil,
Lay careless at its side below.
Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter,
More pure, more holy, and serene;
Who might not feel existence lighter
Beneath the power of such a scene?
Marking the blush of light ascending
From where the sun had set afar,
Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blending
With the pale azure; while each star