Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/140

 

While clust'ring mercies seem to bloom, And in my path to meet, May grateful tho'ts spontaneous rise, And pour their incense sweet.

 

THE queen of night rode bold and high, Her path was white with stars, Her cheek was sanguine, and her eye Glanc'd on the blood stain'd Mars.

No word she spake, no sign she made, Save that her head she bow'd, As if a cold, good night she bade, To some departing cloud.

A fleecy robe was loosely cast, Around her graceful form, She hid her forehead from the blast, Hoarse herald of the storm. 