The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 41, Page 428
II.
To the Sky.
Far from the rustlings of the poplar-bough,
Which o'er my opening life wild music made,—
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow
And flashing streams, whereby my childhood play'd;—
In the dim city, midst the sounding flow
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn,
O thou rich Sky! and from thy splendours learn
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home;
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome!
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest,
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd
With founts of beauty for the eye of love!
