Soft Hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way

As the far bell of Vesper makes him start,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;[227]Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?

Ah! surely Nothing dies but Something mourns!