Читать книгу Roughing It in the Bush - Susanna Moodie - Страница 14

There's rest when eve, with dewy fingers,

Draws the curtains of repose

Round the west, where light still lingers,

And the day's last glory glows;

There's rest in heaven's unclouded blue,

When twinkling stars steal one by one,

So softly on the gazer's view,

As if they sought his glance to shun.

There's rest when o'er the silent meads

The deepening shades of night advance;

And sighing through their fringe of reeds,

The mighty stream's clear waters glance.

There's rest when all above is bright,

And gently o'er these summer isles

The full moon pours her mellow light,

And heaven on earth serenely smiles.

There's rest when angry storms are o'er,

And fear no longer vigil keeps;

When winds are heard to rave no more,

And ocean's troubled spirit sleeps;

There's rest when to the pebbly strand,

The lapsing billows slowly glide;

And, pillow'd on the golden sand,

Breathes soft and low the slumbering tide.

There's rest, deep rest, at this still hour—

A holy calm—a pause profound;

Whose soothing spell and dreamy power

Lulls into slumber all around.

There's rest for labour's hardy child,

For Nature's tribes of earth and air—

Whose sacred balm and influence mild,

Save guilt and sorrow, all may share.

There's rest beneath the quiet sod,

When life and all its sorrows cease,

And in the bosom of his God

The Christian finds eternal peace—

That peace the world cannot bestow,

The rest a Saviour's death-pangs bought,

To bid the weary pilgrim know

A rest surpassing human thought.