 | Poems |  |
[The night-hawks fly]
The night-hawks fly
Along the sky,
And fan the welkin with a hollow sound,
The dusky veil
Of eve o'er dale,
And mountain's hung in vapoury folds around.
Along the sky,
And fan the welkin with a hollow sound,
The dusky veil
Of eve o'er dale,
And mountain's hung in vapoury folds around.
The lily's bell
Perfumes the dell,
Ere curling petals sleep upon the dew,
Beneath the shade
Of willows laid,
Past scenes of joy attract the mental view.
Perfumes the dell,
Ere curling petals sleep upon the dew,
Beneath the shade
Of willows laid,
Past scenes of joy attract the mental view.
In yon high nest,
The ringdoves rest,
And spread their dappled wings around their young,
So love did knit
A mantle, and sit
Above my fears—around a bright shield hung.
The ringdoves rest,
And spread their dappled wings around their young,
So love did knit
A mantle, and sit
Above my fears—around a bright shield hung.
112
'Mid lilac bowers
The joyous hours,
In mellow tinctures, softly flew along
A vernant shore;
Alas! no more
Those pure hours cheer, save in ideal song.
The joyous hours,
In mellow tinctures, softly flew along
A vernant shore;
Alas! no more
Those pure hours cheer, save in ideal song.
The fires of mirth,
The rays of worth,
Are quenched in the gulf of grief and wo,
The bliss of love,
The guileless dove,
Have fled, with all their varnished charms, below.
The rays of worth,
Are quenched in the gulf of grief and wo,
The bliss of love,
The guileless dove,
Have fled, with all their varnished charms, below.
The heart's full throb,
And sorrow's sob
Unreal hopes can never hush to rest,
The lone alcove,
Where fairies rove,
And wanderers pause, is nature's vermeil breast.
And sorrow's sob
Unreal hopes can never hush to rest,
The lone alcove,
Where fairies rove,
And wanderers pause, is nature's vermeil breast.
There I would lay
The live-long day,
And tune my roundelay, or madrigal;
Nor leave the bower,
Till death's cold hour,
And leave it then my consecrated pall.
The live-long day,
And tune my roundelay, or madrigal;
Nor leave the bower,
Till death's cold hour,
And leave it then my consecrated pall.
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