HE moon in silver bark, drifts o'er the sea—
The sea of Heav'n,—not calm, for dark cloud-waves
Dash o'er the prow, yet storm and gust she braves,
Till dimmed the lustre of her majesty.
A picture and a poem—both here die;
While ivied ruin, and lonely cypress stand
Like sentinels upon this widowed land—
Painted with glowing pencils of the sky,
And gold and crimson streaks of flame that light
Their torches at the sunset gates that ope',
To shut too soon upon the longing hope,
That looks to look again with faith's clear sight.
Yet as the soul drifts o'er this sea of life,
Faith should grow brighter, as more keen the strife.
A WHISPER FROM THE CAMPAGNA.
HE moon in silver bark, drifts o'er the sea—The sea of Heav'n,—not calm, for dark cloud-waves
Dash o'er the prow, yet storm and gust she braves,
Till dimmed the lustre of her majesty.
A picture and a poem—both here die;
While ivied ruin, and lonely cypress stand
Like sentinels upon this widowed land—
Painted with glowing pencils of the sky,
And gold and crimson streaks of flame that light
Their torches at the sunset gates that ope',
To shut too soon upon the longing hope,
That looks to look again with faith's clear sight.
Yet as the soul drifts o'er this sea of life,
Faith should grow brighter, as more keen the strife.