Is the rich track which sunbeams weave
With all their varied, mingling, dyes,
Ere yet the lingering sun has fled,
Or glory left the mountain's head.
Yet not one ray of sunset's hue
Illumes thy silent, peaceful train;
And scarce a murmur trembles through
The woods, to hail thy gentle reign,
Save where the nightingale, afar,
Sings wildly to thy lonely star.