Though blank the range of place and fact To hearts that only rise and fall, God and the Poet can extract Beauty and Truth from each and all. THE DEATH OF DAY. WRITTEN ON THE RHINE. FULL of hours, the Day is falling Where its brethren lie, A stern and royal voice is calling The beautiful to die. The banners of the west Their glory be unblest! There is blood upon the gold. Great Time, how canst thou slay, With such a funeral state, The gay and gentle Day, Whom none could fear or hate? Oh! mark him on his bed, Let not the giddy breeze The hills, in clear outline, Against the blanching sky, Stand forth, nor seem to pine For the joy that is passing by, But solemnly and boldly Yet leaves and blossoms pray One deep and constant prayer: "Take him not all away, That made us seem so fair; Say not, that, in its turn, 'T is pleasant to behold The lamp of darkness burn Light-amber or red-gold; "Praise not the coming night, "We have wept when Day was sighing,— His gloom has made us mourn,—— And now our love is dying, What care we for the born?" ON A RUINED CASTLE, NEAR THE RHINE. THIS was a fortress, firm and stout, It has gained glory from those wings, And now it stands in its massiveness, ON THE JUNGFRAU BY MOONLIGHT. THE maiden moon is resting the maiden mount above, They gaze upon each other with cold majestic love. So I and Thou, sweet Sister! upon each other gaze; Our love was warm, but sorrow has tempered its fine rays. As in the hazy heaven that gentle orb appears, Like thine her face is pale, but from within a light And casts a tender sheen on that pale hill beneath, |