How like a conquerer the king of day
Folds back the curtains of his orient couch,
Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way
Through skies made brighter by his burning touch;
For, as a warrior from the tented field
Victorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest,
So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield,
And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.
* * * * *
Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleam
Amid the banners of the sunset sky,
Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam
That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high;
Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss,
And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng,
Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!)
Where dwell eternal melody and song.
* * * * *
=Alice Cary.=
"The Old House."
=404.= ATTRACTIONS OF OUR EARLY HOME.
My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes, you sang so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.
My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,—are you dead and gone?
I've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness any where.
My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house-hearth, long ago?