Where Nature offers, at all hours, That perfect Beauty their weak powers Comes forth to comfort and relieve Though still 'tis hardly she that gives, Though blank the range of place and fact To hearts that only rise and fall, God and the Poet can extract Beauty and Truth from each and all. THE DEATH OF DAY. WRITTEN ON THE RHINE. FULL of hours, the Day is falling Where its brethren lie, A stern and royal voice is calling The beautiful to die. The banners of the west Their glory be unblest! There is blood upon the gold. Great Time, how canst thou slay, With such a funeral state, The gay and gentle Day, Whom none could fear or hate? Oh! mark him on his bed, How flushed his quiet cheek, How lowly droops his head, And eyes that more than speak. |