Like fiery forms of angels, They throng around the sun Courtiers that on their monarch wait, Until his course is run; From him they take their glory; And trail their flowing garments forth, O bliss to gaze upon them, A shadowy landscape dipp'd in gold, I feel myself immortal, As in your robe of light The glorious hills and vales of heaven I seem to hear the murmur Of some celestial stream, And catch the glimmer of its course More lovely than this passing glimpse And, strengthened with a mightier hope, I face the world again. -Temple Bar. TO THE MOCKING BIRD. R. H. WILDE. Wing'd mimic of the woods! thou motley fool, Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! For such thou art by day-but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy JACQUES complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. |