Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/143

1830-40.] GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 127 On your unfading loveliness, I feel Like a lost infant gazing on its home, And weep to die, and come where ye repose Upon yon boundless heaven, like parted souls On an eternity of blessedness. SABBATH EVENING. How calmly sinks the parting sun ! Yet twilight lingers still ; And beautiful as dreams of heaven It slumbers on the hill ; Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings, And, rendering back the hues above, Seems resting in a trance of love. Round yonder rocks, the forest-trees In shadowy groups recline. Like saints at evening bowed in prayer Around their holy shrine ; And through their leaves the night-winds blow, So calm and still, their music low Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, Soft echoed on the evening air. And yonder western throng of clouds. Retiring from the sky. So calmly move, so softly glow, They seem to Fancy's eye Bright creatures of a better sphere, Come down at noon to worship here, And from their sacrifice of love. Returning to their home above. The blue isles of the golden sea. The night-arch floating high. The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, The bright streams leaping by, Are living with rehgion — deep On earth and sea its glories sleep, And mingle with the starlight rays, Like the soft hght of parted days. The spirit of the holy eve Comes through the silent air To feeling's hidden spring, and wakes A gush of music there ! And the far depths of ether beam So passing fair, we almost dream That we can rise, and wander through Their open paths of trackless blue. Each soul is filled with glorious dreams, Each pulse is beating wild ; And thought is soaring to the shrine Of glory undefiled ! And holy aspirations start. Like blessed angels, from the heart. And bind — for earth's dark ties are riven — Our spirits to the gates of heaven. WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. The trembling dew-drops fall Upon the shutting flowers ; like souls at rest The stars shine gloriously : and all Save me, are blest. Mother, I love thy grave ! The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, "Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave Above thy child ! 'Tis a sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow; Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem ; dust Is on thy brow. And I could love to die : To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams : By thee, as erst in claildhood, lie, And share thy dreams.