RETI'S LAMENT.
39
The High, like clouds, are fierce and gentle too.
Now hurl the bolt, now drop sweet heavenly dew.
Live, widowed lady, for thy lover's arms
Shall clasp again—oh, fondly clasp—thy charms;
In summer-heat the streamlet dies away
Beneath the fury of the God of Day;
Then, in due season, comes the pleasant rain,
And all is fresh, and fair, and full again."
Thus breathed the spirit from the viewless air,
And stilled the raging of her wild despair;
While Spring consoled with every soothing art,
Cheered by that voice from heaven, the mourner's heart,
Who watched away the hours, so sad and slow,
That brought the limit of her weary woe,
As the pale Moon, quenched by the conquering light
Of garish day, longs for its own dear night.
