Page:Felicia Hemans in The Juvenile Forget Me Not 1835.pdf/2



The clouds of night, the wings of sleep, Are brooding now o'er hill and heath; Too startling for the silence deep, Were music's faintest breath. Descend, ye visions, from aerial bowers, To glorify your own soft, silent hours.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day for man hath pass'd;    Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign, Now let your spells be cast! Steal from lone hearts the pang, sad eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

Oh! bear your kindliest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead; To them that world of peace disclose, Where the pure soul is fled,— Where love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.