RADIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET.
��BRIGHT Clouds ! ye are gathering one by one, Ye are sweeping in pomp round the dying sun, With crimson banner, and golden pall, Like a host to their chieftain's funeral ; Pei'chance ye tread to that hallowed spot With a muffled dirge, though we hear it not.
But inethinks ye tower with a lordlier crest And a gorgeous flush as he sinks to rest ; Not thus in the day of his pride and wrath Did ye dare to press on his glorious path, At his noontide glance ye have quaked with fear, And hasted to hide in your misty sphere.
Do you say he is dead ? You exult in vain, With your rainbow robe and your swelling train : He shall rise again with his strong bright ray, He shall reign in power when you fade away, When ye darkly cower in your vapoury hall, Tintless and naked, and noteless, all.
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