Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/395

 1840-50.] SIDNEY DYER. 379 SONG OF THE SUNBEAM. To glow with the beauty of even ; But finding has fled I'm the bright sunbeam ! I flit as a dream, The soul of the dead. Will mount with it gladly to heaven ! Which gently comes down from the skies, When sleep with delight. Holds infancy bright, To close up its soft silken eyes. The night for awhile May shadow my smile, Then Nature in sorrow will reek ; I'll come o'er the lawn O'er lake and o'er sea, As tripping with glee. At first peep of dawn. And wipe each sad trace from its cheek. Reflected my beauties I trace ; In each opened grave So rapt is the wave, I'll pour in my wave. As lightly I lave. To show there is light in the tomb ; It trembles as still we embrace. And smiling will say, Come, this is the way I lie in the rose, To where I eternally bloom ! When freshly unclose Its leaves to the sun and the breeze ; I skip o'er the plain, And ripe waving grain. Or glide o'er the leaves of the trees. THE EVENING ZEPHYR. I shun not the cot, 'Tis born within a buttercup, Where poverty's lot And scented by a rose ; Holds often the wise and the good ; It lives where trellised vine climbs up, ^ Through thatch and through pane, And murmuring streamlet flows. I leap in again, A gift all unsullied from God. It steals a kiss from every flower, And treads, with airy feet, I shrink from the halls, Its noiseless path from wood to bower. And thick curtained walls. Where sighing lovers meet. Where wealth lies in sorrow all day ; But in at the door Where dwelleth the poor, A daily warm visit I pay. In graceful waves it moves the bough And undulating grain, While Echo's voice, with silvery flow, Murmurs a soft refrain. I never will shrink From the cataract's brink. But paint on its moisture my bow ; And down on the stream With radiance gleam, And at the gorgeous verge of day It wings its evening flight, Where sleeping valleys stretch away In pensive, dreamy hght. As stars flashing up from below. It wantons with each fair one's cheek, Untwists the truant curl. On Death's pallid cheek And nestling in some bosom meek. I often will seek Its viewless wings will furl.