Then, as daylight slowly vanished,
And the evening mists grew dim,
Solemnly from distant voices
Rose a vesper hymn.

When the chant was done, and lingering
Died upon the evening air,
From the hill the radiant Angels
Still were listening there.

Silent came the gathering darkness,
Bringing with it sleep and rest;
Save a little bird was singing
Near her leafy nest.

Through the sounds of war and labour
She had warbled all day long,
While the Angels leant and listened
Only to her song.

But the starry night was coming;
When she ceased her little lay
From the mountain top the Angels
Slowly passed away.

VERSE:  GOLDEN DAYS

Golden days—­where are they? 
Pilgrims east and west
Cry; if we could find them
We would pause and rest: 
We would pause and rest a little
From our long and weary ways:-
Where are they, then, where are they—­
Golden days?

Golden days—­where are they? 
Ask of childhood’s years,
Still untouched by sorrow,
Still undimmed by tears: 
Ah, they seek a phantom Future,
Crowned with brighter, starry rays;—­
Where are they, then, where are they—­
Golden days?

Golden days—­where are they? 
Has Love learnt the spell
That will charm them hither,
Near our hearth to dwell? 
Insecure are all her treasures,
Restless is her anxious gaze:-
Where are they, then, where are they—­
Golden days?

Golden days—­where are they? 
Farther up the hill
I can hear the echo
Faintly calling still: 
Faintly calling, faintly dying,
In a far-off misty haze:-
Where are they, then, where are they—­
Golden days?

VERSE:  PHILIP AND MILDRED

Lingering fade the rays of daylight, and the listening air is chilly;
Voice of bird and forest murmur, insect hum and quivering spray
Stir not in that quiet hour:  through the valley, calm and stilly,
All in hushed and loving silence watch the slow departing Day.

Till the last faint western cloudlet, faint and rosy, ceases blushing,
And the blue grows deep and deeper where one trembling planet shines,
And the day has gone for ever—­then, like some great ocean rushing,
The sad night wind wails lamenting, sobbing through the moaning pines.

Such, of all day’s changing hours, is the fittest and the meetest
For a farewell hour—­and parting looks less bitter and more blest;
Earth seems like a shrine for sorrow, Nature’s mother voice is sweetest,
And her hand seems laid in chiding on the unquiet throbbing breast.

Words are lower, for the twilight seems rebuking sad repining,
And wild murmur and rebellion, as all childish and in vain;
Breaking through dark future hours clustering starry hopes seem shining,
Then the calm and tender midnight folds her shadow round the pain.