Whither away, ye argosies of Heaven,
In solemn state advancing from afar?
What mission marshals you? What chivalrous emprise
Darkens the glory of the sapphire skies?
Say, was your empire’s ancient quiet riven
With rumor ominous of distant wrong and war?
Or speed ye forth with snowy sails unfurled,
And radiant pennons shimmering in the haze,
To bring with proper pomp, to his empyreal throne,
Your monarch with his bride?—he loveth her alone,—
Dear daughter of the Sun, the peerless virgin world,
Long cloistered in his bosom’s brightest rays.
. . . . . . . . . .
No answer but a deeper shadow cast,—
And lo! the splendid mystery has passed.
EASTER ANTICIPATED.
Hark! ’tis the Robin, poet-priest,
Absolves rude Winter’s wrong:
The heart of Nature is released,
And soareth out in song.
UNDER THE MOON.
Beautiful Luna, bride of the night!
Sweet is the sheen of thy soft silver light;
On castle and cottage in splendor it streams,
Blessing the earth with its bountiful beams.
Thou cheerest the vigils of shepherd and seer;
To sailor and lover alike thou art dear;
Forever and ever thy kingdom shall be:—
The heart owns thy sway like the tides of the sea.