To the sound of evening bells
All that lives to rest repairs,
Birds unto their leafy dells,
Beasts unto their forest lairs.
All things wear a home-bound look,
From the weary hind that plods
Through the corn-fields, to the rook
Sailing tow'rd the glimmering woods.
'Tis the time with power to bring
Tearful memories of home
To the sailor wandering
On the far-off barren foam.
What a still and holy time!
Yonder glowing sunset seems
Like the pathway to a clime
Only seen till now in dreams.
Pilgrim, here compelled to roam,
Nor allowed that path to tread;
Now when sweetest sense of home
On all living hearts is shed,
Doth not yearning sad, sublime,
At this season stir thy breast,
That thou canst not at this time
Seek thy home and happy rest?
