XXX.

The sunless day is sweeter yet Than when the golden sun-showers danced On bower new-glazed or rivulet; And Spring her banners first advanced.

By wind unshaken hang in dream The wind-flowers o'er their dark green lair; And those thin poppy cups that seem Not bodied forms, but woven of air.

Nor bird is heard; nor insect flits. A tear-drop glittering on her cheek, Composed but shadowed, Nature sits— Yon primrose not more staid and meek.

The light of pensive hope unquenched On those pathetic brows and eyes, She sits, by silver dew-showers drenched, Through which the chill spring-odours rise.

Was e'er on human countenance shed So sweet a sadness? Once: no more. Then when his charge the Patriarch led Dream-warned to Egypt's distant shore.

Down on her Infant Mary gazed; Her face the angels marked with awe; Yet 'neath its dimness, undisplaced, Looked forth that smile the Magians saw.