168
A PASSING YEAR.
Are there, as they had risen from the dead,
So like their early selves their lost perfumes
Seem blown about them; and I hear the breeze
That used to kiss them sing old melodies.
So like their early selves their lost perfumes
Seem blown about them; and I hear the breeze
That used to kiss them sing old melodies.
"Above, the changing sky
Shows wonder-pictures to my fading eyes:
Now, the black armies of the clouds march by,
Now rainbows bloom, now golden moons arise.
Below, how varied too! Now glitter lies
On gorgeous jewels, bridal-flowers and mirth;
Now mourners pass, and fill the air with sighs,
To hide their coffins in the yawning earth;
Now, with a pallid face and frenzied mind,
Cold, starving wretches ask if God is blind!
Shows wonder-pictures to my fading eyes:
Now, the black armies of the clouds march by,
Now rainbows bloom, now golden moons arise.
Below, how varied too! Now glitter lies
On gorgeous jewels, bridal-flowers and mirth;
Now mourners pass, and fill the air with sighs,
To hide their coffins in the yawning earth;
Now, with a pallid face and frenzied mind,
Cold, starving wretches ask if God is blind!
"Now reels a nightmare throne
From the crushed bosom of the Sicilies,
The South's brief dream of blood wakes in the sun;
Glad winds sing on the blue Italian seas,
And glad men bless me by their olive-trees.
Now, in the clouds above a younger land,
With awful eyes fixed on its destinies,
The frowning souls of its dead Glorious stand
From the crushed bosom of the Sicilies,
The South's brief dream of blood wakes in the sun;
Glad winds sing on the blue Italian seas,
And glad men bless me by their olive-trees.
Now, in the clouds above a younger land,
With awful eyes fixed on its destinies,
The frowning souls of its dead Glorious stand
