The lark whose morning song is gay,
At evening hath a pensive lay.
The thrush that caroll’d blithe at morn,
Sits silent now in yonder thorn.
But evening hath no frown for me;
No spectres in its gloom I see—
For hope, fond hope, looks thro’ the night,
And finds beyond its worlds of light.
2.
Then let the sun go deeply down,