THE GLORY OF PARADISE.
For the fount of living waters panting, like the weary hart,
Prison'd beats my soul its barriers, madly striving to depart;
Walks about, and frets, and struggles homes forsaken to regain,
Drags at each remove untravell'd, pilgrim still, a lengthen'd chain:
Pines the blessing by transgressing lost to earth, in dreary mood,
Bitter makes a present sorrow thinking of departed good.
Who can count the rays of glory, jewell'd on the Priestly vest,
Where, with living pearls uplifted, soar the mansions of the blest?
Roofs all gold, and golden conches for the saintly presence meet,
Gold, like crystal seas pellucid, shining pathways for their feet;
Only gems the star-like fabric "fitly join'd together" hold,
Nought that staineth now remaineth in the unpolluted fold.
Winters horrid, summers torrid, vex no more the stilly clime,
But the purple bloom of roses sheds an everlasting prime;
Pales the lily, glows the crocus, balms their drowsy sweets distil,
Smile the meadows, sing the corn-fields, honied dew-drops swell the rill;
Odorous clouds of fragrant incense spice the aromatic breeze,
Autmn's fruits, and spring's first promise, bend the ever-blossom'd trees.
