I am home at last.
Give ear, O Earth, the honeyed air again
Swells with the rapture of the heavenly shore;
And I am singing as I upward pass
Upon the "sea of mingled fire and glass,"
To Him who Loved and gave Himself for Men,
Be Glory, Honor, Power, Forevermore.
THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.
Inscribed to
Robert Collyer.
THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.
We seem within a pleasant vale to dwell,
Whose boundary knows the early summer's spell,
And where, in leafy tabernacle, June
Hears not the mandate of the waning moon.
The river bank and hill-side of the vale,
And orchard fruitage streaked with morning pale,
Grow rosy with the rosy summer hours.
Green is the dewy turf and gay with flowers.
The morning sky is azure; we behold
The white clouds sleeping on the eastern hill,
At eve--a fleecy flock--they follow still
The shepherd sun upon his path of gold.
Sweet is the air, and peace is everywhere:
Save that in distant skies beyond our time
We mark the vivid shafts of lightning fly,
Shot from the twanging bow of thunder where
The sky is bright with pale auroral light,
Framed in by darkness; there we view
The stern death-struggling of armed hosts--
The smoke of burning cities--martyr fires--
Towers toppling to ruin, palaces,
Vast columned temples, and triumphal arch,
Fair hanging gardens, walls magnificent,
Resolved to dust by time--as summer's sun
Resolves again a fleecy cloud to mist.
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