CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
Even in the very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.
HY voice is like the sea's voice, when it makes
A melancholy music on the beach.
Thy voice is in the winds, when birds beseech
The twilight time with song. The stream that
Its way from out the hill by flowery brakes
Has in its tones the sweetness of thy speech.
At night when all is still, and faint sounds reach
The ear of one who having slept awakes
Full of his dream, thy voice floats through the night,
In music sad as Autumn winds that blow
'Mid yellowing woods in the sun's waning light,
Compassionate, persistent, clear, and low.
And when the world is fading out of sight,
Thy voice shall whisper peace and bid me go.
FAUGHT of oaten stop or pastoral song
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales.
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired
Sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With braid ethereal wove,
O'er hang his wavy bed:
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short, shrill shriek flits on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial, loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp,
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge.
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual, dusky vail.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes,
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!
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