From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Yet not the golden islands IF solitude hath ever led thy steps Of purple gold that motionless Hung o'er the sinking sphere: Thou must have marked the billowy clouds, Edged with intolerable radiancy, Towering like rocks of jet Crowned with a diamond wreath. And yet there is a moment, When the sun's highest point Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge, Gleaming in yon flood of light, Nor the feathery curtains Paving that gorgeous dome, As Mab's ethereal palace could afford. Its vast and azure dome, Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted The landscape now prepares for night: A gauzy mist slow settles round; Eve shows her hues in every sight, And blends her voice with every sound. The sheep stream rippling down the dell, Their smooth, sharp faces pointed straight; The pacing kine, with tinkling bell, Come grazing through the pasture-gate. The ducks are grouped, and talk in fits: One yawns with stretch of leg and wing; One rears and fans, then, settling, sits; One at a moth makes awkward spring. The geese march grave in Indian file, The ragged patriarch at the head; Then, screaming, flutter off awhile, Fold up, and once more stately tread. Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air; The oxen, loosened from the plow, Rest by the pear-tree's crooked trunk ; Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow, Trim, in a mound beside him sunk. One of the kine upon the bank Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar ; Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark The fire-flies freckle every spot Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows The viewless beetle by its sound. The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars; The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone; And now the heavens are set with stars, And night and quiet reign alone. ALFRED B. STREET. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhotian hill, As day and night contending were until Nature reclaimed her order: gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till 't is gone - and all is gray. LORD BYRON. |