 | Poems |  |
67
SUNSET.
There is a solemn pomp along the Heaven,
That deepens in the sunset; Day hath drawn
A host of bannered glories round his path,
And sinks, defying Darkness, with a crown,
Whose light should be immortal, and the robe,
The gorgeous robe of his imperial state,
Spread with a purple splendor round his fall.
That deepens in the sunset; Day hath drawn
A host of bannered glories round his path,
And sinks, defying Darkness, with a crown,
Whose light should be immortal, and the robe,
The gorgeous robe of his imperial state,
Spread with a purple splendor round his fall.
He dies as monarch hearts alone can die,
Unconquered to the last: the clouds that clung
Around his pathway all this dreary morn,
Dispart at length, and through the breathless air,
The vast vault of this firmament of peace,
They that had veiled his brightness, share his light,
The wide light of his proud, majestic eyes,
And what before was worthless, takes the hues,
That mount an arch of triumph in the skies.
Ah! thus it is with Genius!—when the flame
Wanes to its setting, and the envious clouds,
That Wrong, and Falsehood, Treachery, and Hate,
Raised to obscure it, can no more withstand
The grand blaze of its concentrated power,
They part, like billows from a prow of gold,
And awe-struck by the greatness of their sin,
Only survive, because the master-fire
Darts such an universal radiance round,
That they lie blushing in that glorious smile,
Whose scorn is mightier than its death is sad.
Unconquered to the last: the clouds that clung
Around his pathway all this dreary morn,
Dispart at length, and through the breathless air,
The vast vault of this firmament of peace,
They that had veiled his brightness, share his light,
The wide light of his proud, majestic eyes,
And what before was worthless, takes the hues,
That mount an arch of triumph in the skies.
68
Wanes to its setting, and the envious clouds,
That Wrong, and Falsehood, Treachery, and Hate,
Raised to obscure it, can no more withstand
The grand blaze of its concentrated power,
They part, like billows from a prow of gold,
And awe-struck by the greatness of their sin,
Only survive, because the master-fire
Darts such an universal radiance round,
That they lie blushing in that glorious smile,
Whose scorn is mightier than its death is sad.
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