With what content the Forest bowers are blest,
And streams of coolness warbling, when the breeze
Crawls scorchingly, at Noon, o’er the opprest
And browning herbs in the unsheltered leas;
But sweeter far the gradual degrees
Of shadowy Eve, when in the dreamy West
Cloud-wrought Elysiums hang in golden rest,
And smile down bliss for every Eye that sees!
Then of deep Night the still mysterious mien
How grateful, with her solemn birds in flight
Dim gliding ’neath the Stars, whilst o’er the scene
The Moon comes pacing with a step of light!—
Alone ’mid these, in Memory’s despite,
My Soul forgets that Wrong hath ever been.
Other works by Charles Harpur...
