96
A NIGHT AMONG THE MOUTAINS.
Them not, their wings are o'er us in the night,
Guarding our slumbers; angels of the light,
They tend us and we know it not; they bless
Our earth-worn spirits with their tenderness,
Subduing them to meekness. Did we know,
Or could we only feel, that even so,
Affection known too late will wear the heart
With vain repinings, we might tear apart,
The seeming coldness that divides too long
Warm hearts that perish like a gush of song.
Guarding our slumbers; angels of the light,
They tend us and we know it not; they bless
Our earth-worn spirits with their tenderness,
Subduing them to meekness. Did we know,
Or could we only feel, that even so,
Affection known too late will wear the heart
With vain repinings, we might tear apart,
The seeming coldness that divides too long
Warm hearts that perish like a gush of song.
Beautiful, beautiful, above me shine
Heaven's countless host. So on my bosom's shrine
Bright stars arise, that ever shed a beam
Of pensive light across my being's dream.
Yet where are they, the tender and the bright,
That perished from my bosom yester-night?
Lost Pleiads, ever striking on the lyre
Of mournful recollection, could the fire
That once burnt in you, spring to life once more,
You would not thus haunt memory's distant shore,
But bounding upward, take your places, first
Of all that on my thoughtful vision burst.
Heaven's countless host. So on my bosom's shrine
Bright stars arise, that ever shed a beam
Of pensive light across my being's dream.
Yet where are they, the tender and the bright,
That perished from my bosom yester-night?
Lost Pleiads, ever striking on the lyre
Of mournful recollection, could the fire
That once burnt in you, spring to life once more,
You would not thus haunt memory's distant shore,
But bounding upward, take your places, first
Of all that on my thoughtful vision burst.
Aid from above! my soul is sorrowful
With many things. Too full of pain, too full,
Is our life's measure, yet we need it all:
More gentle means would fail to break the thrall
With many things. Too full of pain, too full,
Is our life's measure, yet we need it all:
More gentle means would fail to break the thrall
