STANZAS.
BY JAMES F. OTIS.
See, where, fast sinking o'er the hills,
As with a golden halo round,
The setting sun with splendor fills
Those massy piles which lie around
His couch, in crimson glory drest,
Like drapery o'er a monarch's rest.
Bright, fair, but oh, how fading too
Is all this beautiful array!
A moment given to the view,
Then past, amid the gloom, away:
So, like the gilded things of earth,
Which charm the eye, though little worth!
And now, eve's glowing star illumes
The chambers of the distant west,
And, scarce discerned, like waving plumes
That flash o'er many a warrior's crest,
There float along the upper air
Thin, fleecy clouds, so clear and fair.
How sweet to gaze upon their slight,
Transparent forms, changing so oft,
As e'en the Zephyr's gentlest flight
Scatters them with its pinions soft—
Seeming, as down the sky they go,
Like wreaths of gently driven snow!
And then to trace the full-orbed moon,
As, struggling on her cloudy way,
She travels forth, now wrapped in gloom,
Now bursting forth with undimm'd ray—
Like some high, noble heart, whose pride
Still bears him on, though woes betide.