SONNET.—CLOUDS.
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
YE welcome clouds! what praises have ye won!
Host after host ye ever thronging come,
Careering on athwart the ethereal dome,
To tell of tempests past or hastening on.
With magic hues ye often deck the sky,
Enamelling it with red and purple, gold;
Like molten silver oft ye are unrolled,
And oft changed into palaces, ye lie.
The rainbow oft is pictured on your breast,
To tell of peace and plenty ye do bring;
Hail, snow, ye bear oft 'neath your ebon wing,
And tempests in your blackest mantle rest.
The thirsty earth ye wet with freshening showers,
Floods flowing from ye speak your desolating powers.