SONNET IX.

A golden cloud came floating o'er my head, With kindred glories round the sun to blend! Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead; —Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend. I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end: A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed, The beauty of the crimson west subdued, And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend, The silent happiness of eve renew'd. Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise; But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued, When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice, —God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!