XVIII.
And here, sweet groves and flowers,
Bathed in thy warmth, their fragrant incense yield;
Here twittering birds in blooming bowers,
And rippling rills, the wooing breeze, and every teeming field,
Their daily homage bring
To thy life-giving beams—while blithely sing
Youths and maids with kindling eye
In thrilling melodies of love beneath the radiant sky.
When comes the lowering night,
They droop, and sleep, and dream of thy fair light;
If now that light no more be shed,
All hushed and motionless they are—and dark and cold and dead!
XIX.
The gathering shades arise
To whelm each feeble ray before it dies;
The purpled clouds seem filled with blood,
And hoarsely rolls beneath thy car the ocean’s crimson flood,
O! God of light, for thee
Behold our hands with sacred stains imbued!
See—from night’s prison-caves set free,
Dread monsters flit, and dismal Fear, and all her horrid brood,
On shadowy wings are borne!
Send forth—O send athwart the darkening heaven
One glittering ray in token given,
That thou wilt still in triumph come, bringing the beauteous morn!
