VIII.
'T was morning—from the golden sky
Night fled before day's burning eye,
As flies the minister of sin
From souls that kneel to God, to win
Courage to meet the tempter's wile,
And strength upon the strife to smile.
Scarce had the cloudless sun betrayed,
The flowers that bloomed in meadows low,
Ere toward a thickly shaded glade,
An armed horseman traveled slow;
And paused beside a gushing spring,
Whose gentle murmurs thrilled the air,
As thrills an angel's unseen wing
The distant blue when mounting there.
The dark trees hung above its wave,
A tapestry of green,
And arching o'er the waters, gave
A softness to the sheen
Of mellow light that darted through
The dewy leaves of richest hue;
While round the huge trunks many a vine,
Had bade its graceful tendrils twine;
The blossoming grape and jessamine pale,
Loading with sweets the summer gale.
Not long with hasty step he trod
The narrow path and flowery sod,
Ere gently o'er the sere leaves' bed
A maiden passed with faltering tread.