The Evening Gun.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Remember'st thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep
Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled.
The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
Like them to die away.

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