RADIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET.
Bright Clouds! ye are gathering one by one
Ye are sweeping in pomp round the dying sun,
With crimson banner, and golden pall
Like a host to their chieftain's funeral;
Perchance ye tread to that hallowed spot
With a muffled dirge, though we hear it not.
But methinks ye tower with a lordlier crest
And a gorgeous flush as he sinks to rest,
Not thus in the day of his pride and wrath
Did ye dare to press on his glorious path,
At his noontide glance ye have quaked with fear
And hasted to hide in your misty sphere.
Do you say he is dead?—You exult in vain,
With your rainbow robe and your swelling train,
He shall rise again with his strong, bright ray,
He shall reign in power when you fade away,
When ye darkly cower in your vapoury hall,
Tintless, and naked, and noteless all.
The Soul!—The Soul!—with its eye of fire,
Thus, thus shall it soar when its foes expire,
It shall spread its wings o'er the ills that pained,
The evils that shadowed, the sins that stained,
It shall dwell where no rushing cloud hath sway,
And the pageants of earth shall have melted away.
