Fain would I linger here, as I have seen
The sun reposing on this mossy green,
That well might tempt his chariot-wheels to stay,
And check his coursers in their fiery way.
Speed on, thou Sun, thy home is in the west;
I too must speed, for this is not my rest.

Like thee, bright orb! my further path is traced,
And to my going down I too must haste;
For on my pilgrim path no Gibeon's hill
Invites my weary spirit to stand still.
Thou hast returned and brought the shadow back;
I may not, would not, turn me from my track.

Still o'er these mossy walks thy circuit make,
Still in these bowers thy bright siesta take;
On me the gate hath closed, and I must go
Forth from this Eden thro' a vale of woe;
Diverse our path, yet both our God hath blest;
Heav'n spreads a couch for each - a glorious golden rest.