I love the tones that softly rise,

And in a fine accordance close;

That waken no abrupt surprise,

Nor leave us to inert repose.

I love the moon's pure, holy light,

Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream;

The gale, fresh from the wings of night,

Which drinks the early solar beam;

The smile of heaven, when storms subside,

When the moist clouds first break away;

The sober tints of even-tide,

Ere yet forgotten by the day.

Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please,

And set my wearied spirit free:

And one who takes delight in these,

Can never fail of loving thee!