Yet gentlest eve, attending thee,
Come meek devotion, peace, and rest,
Mild contemplation, memory,
And silence with her sway so blest;
And every mortal wish and thought,
By thee to holiest peace is wrought.
Thine airs that crisp the quiet stream,
Are soft as slumbering infants' breath:
The trembling stars, that o'er thee beam,
Are pure as Faith's own crowning wreath: