Poem by Thomas Moore

The Evening Gun

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.

1. Oft, When the Watching Stars Grow Pale
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 69
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 68
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 72
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 99. ’Twas One of Those Dreams

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