The world obscures in me what once was bright!

Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou

hast given,

Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red

cays;

it !

Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath,

Little by little, there came forth another.

My master yet had uttered not a word, While the first whiteness into wings unfolded;

But, when clearly recognized the pilot,

He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee !

Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!

Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!

See, how he scorns all human arguments, So that no oar he wants, nor other sail Than his own wings, between so distant shores!

See, how he holds them, pointed straight

to heaven,

Whereat the tremulous branches readily Did all of them bow downward towards that side

Where its first shadow casts the Holy
Mountain;

So that the little birds upon their tops Should cease the practice of their tune

ful art;

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime

Singing received they in the midst of foliage

That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,

Through the pine forests on the shore

All waters that on earth most limpid

are,

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

self,

Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,

Like as a taper melts before a fire, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, Before the song of those who chime forever

After the chiming of the eternal spheres ;

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies

Compassion for me, more than had they said,

"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume hin?"

The ice, that was about my heart congealed,

To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,

Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.

and the rain;

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,

Their beards of icicles and snow; And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, We must cower over the embers low; And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,

Mope like birds that are changing feather. But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is

nigh;

glow,

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

THE GRAVE.

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

FOR thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,

For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen

How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not Highly timbered, It is unhigh and low; When thou art therein, The heel-ways are low, The side-ways unhigh. The roof is built Thy breast full nigh, So thou shalt in mould Dwell full cold, Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house, And dark it is within ; There thou art fast detained And Death hath the key.