Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/42

 The mortal cold possessing human hearts Weighs down their eyes in deep sepulchral gloom. But if some Angel's sword from forth the night, With vasty voice of Doom, by human tongues Called thunder, leapt, and smote me out of all These evil dreams named living, might I find My little child, and with him find the Lord?

We journey ever higher, through a grove Of moonlit chestnut, where a babbling stream, At intervals, in open forest glades, Flashes with ruffled, wandering, pale flame. The air is richly laden with sweet spoil From fragrant flower, and foliage faint-green; Shadowy-folded hills and dells involved Whisper of verdure lush, luxuriant, Known to fair elves, or rills who tinkling glide, Telling sweet secrets, haunted of shy beams, Whene'er the whims of leafy Ariels, And cloudy gossamer, aloft allow Their gentle wandering; tall asphodel, And flowery fennel, either side our way, Often we dim discern; but where the woods No longer in their colonnades of gloom Involve our path, beyond the precipice, Behold! how all the regions of the north,