That never bar or bolt hath known.
A moment let us enter there,
Before the guest's slow foot draws nigh.
It is the hour of evening prayer,
And its deep tones fill solemnly
The hushed space of the dusky room,
Half-curtained by the twilight gloom ;
But still around each kneeler's head
A shimmer of the evening red
Doth linger. By its fading light
Their number we may tell aright.
The father first, whose silver hair
Gleams like a saintly glory there,
And near him, touched by the same ray,
A child's unquiet tresses play.
Next, side by side, two sisters meek
A blessing on the absent seek,
Each in a mourning vesture clad —
Well may they wear those garments sad !
A husband's coming one doth wait ;