The Stars And The Falling Dew

By Hannah Flagg Gould

The sun, like a hero, whose chariot rolled
In glory, has reached the west;
And wrapped in his mantle of crimson and gold,
Has sunken away to rest.
The stars from the skies
Look forth like the eyes
Of Angels, the earth to view;
While timid and soft,
Their light form aloft,
Comes down with the falling dew.

The flowers, that, oppressed by the monarch of day,
Have bowing confessed his power,
Are lifting their foreheads, relieved of his ray,
To the cool of the evening hour.
And each holing up
Her emerald cup,
Her delicate draught to renew,
Their trust is repaid,
While their thirst is allayed
By the drops of the falling dew.

The birds are at rest in their own little homes,
Their songs are forgotten in sleep;
And low and uncertain the murmuring comes
From over the slumbering deep.
The breezes that sighed
Have fainted and died
In the boughs they were quivering through,
And motion and sound
Have ceased from around
To yield to the falling dew.

And gently it comes, as the shadowy wing
Of night o'er the earth is unfurled;
A silent, refreshing and spirit-like thing,
To brighten and solace the world!
As the face of a friend,
When in sorrow we bend --
Like a heart ever tender and true,
When darkness is ours,
To the earth and the flowers,
Are the stars and the falling dew.