What gloomy shapes are bending,
In darkness, o'er the plain?
The distant hills ascending,
Behold! they sweep amain.
The rock and the forest re-echo the sound
Of horn and of trumpet, of horse and of hound;—
Hurra! with horn and hound,
The rocks and woods resound.

He hurries on affrighted,
The wanderer, through the gloom
Alone by flashes lighted,
He hurries to his doom!
Then it rolls from afar, like the echoing peal
Of the storm, and the mountain-tops quiver and reel,—
The quivering mountains reel,

The horn and the trumpet are ringing afar,
As the summons to battle is sounding;
And the steed, as he catches the signal of war,
In the pride of his spirit is bounding.
Shrill it echoes afar, over hill and o'er plain,
And the wide distant mountains repeat it again;
And the shout of the warrior, and nearer the song,
Peal aloud, as the glittering bands are hurrying along.
As on, on, on, on, pours the tide of fight,
Still aloft floats the tossing flag, in the glance of morning's light.

We leap to our saddles, we range us in line,

O great Lord, the source of happiness,
Beloved of all, praise be unto thee.
Thou that knowest the secret of the heart, thou ocean of mercy.
Daya bows to thee.

Thy impersonal form is like the ocean of immortality,
Which is very deep and unfathomable.
The waves of joy are constantly rising,
But my heart is restless.

Thy real form is such that all desires of my mind are fulfilled;
Having seen the marvel, Daya worships with great feeling.

To join the mean with each extremity,
With nearest virtue aye to clothe the vice;
And, as to purpose likewise it shall fall,
To press the virtue that it may not rise.
As drunkenness good fellowship to call;
The friendly foe, with his fair double face,
Say he is gentle, and courteous therewithal;
Affirm that favel hath a goodly grace
In eloquence; and cruelty to name
Zeal of justice; and change in time and place.
And he that suffereth offence without blame,
Call him pitiful; and him true and plain,
That raileth rechless unto each man's shame.

She burst fierce wine
From the tough skin of pain,
Like wind that wrings from rigid skies
A scant and bitter gleam,
Long after the autumnal dusk
Has folded all the valleys in.

Father of Mercy, God of Love!
I lift my eyes to thee;
Among thy blessed babes above,
Wilt thou place me?

Imploring blessings on my head,
My parents bend the knee,
While angels hover round my bed,
And watch o'er me.

O may my every wish and thought
Be filled with love to Thee,
Who with thy Son's dear blood hath bought
Poor babes like me!

Father of Mercy, God of Love,
Lord of all purity!
Among thy blessed saints above,
Wilt thou place me?

Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow
Is gone, and the spring-tide of pleasure return:
It may kindle its smile ere the dawn of to-morrow,
And shake the sweet dews of delight from its urn.
Then let thy strings, brushed by fancy's light wings,
Breathe the music of joy in the listener's ear:
Then let thy note, like the nightingale's, float,
Lighting rapture's gay smile, stealing pity's soft tear.

Though I should tune to the key-note of gladness
Thy chords, yet the blast of the winter's chill wind

Star of my heart! though far away
The brightness of thy beauty shines,
Thy soft and soul-dissolving ray
With every thought and feeling twines;
And though thy full and perfect glow,
On other eyes and hearts is shed,
In memory still thy bright beams flow,
Like Heaven's own purest light, around my lonely head.

How sweet to wander up the dell,
And trace the wildly-roving stream,
And, bending o'er the crystal well,
To read the moon's reflected beam,
The dancing light, the checkered glow,
That o'er the bubbling fountain play!

The sun was sinking in the west,
When Mary sought the birken grove;
In snowy lawen simply drest,
She came to meet her own true love.

To meet her own true love she came,
Just at the hour of gloamin' gray,
To light anew her virgin-flame,
And blend with his her softer ray.

The dewy breath of evening blew,
And rustled through the spangled brake;
On wings of down the west-wind flew,
And lightly curled the placid lake;

Around on ilka brier and bush,
The throstles sung their evening lay,

Hushed, hushed the night comes,
Day's cares are ended,
Put by your heavy thoughts,
Rest, dusk-befriended;
Softly my voice shall weave
White webs of sleep,
Soothing you, folding you,
Peaceful and deep;
Doubt shall fade, pain shall flee
Discord, and fear,—
Just your love murmuring
Low at your ear;
Respite and comforting
Soul-deep, profound,
Come while I build your sweet
Palace of sound;
Gold through your drowsy brain
Star-visions gleam,
While my song makes for you
Dim walls of dream;