Gleams round the throne of Triune God, which seems
To rise from out that placid depth, built of
Its water, crystallized to gold and pearl,
Wherein joy’s beauteous light forever plays. 
Over that sea rings set beyond vast rings
Of burning seraph, saint, and cherub, stand
With starry crowns; and, with unceasing songs,
Struck from their lyres that burn as morning suns,
And born in hearts that burn in joys of heaven—­
Louder than twelvefold thunder, yet more sweet
Than all the sweetest strains e’er heard on earth,
Fill Heaven with light and song ineffable,
Along the bright flow of eternity. 
Then swift in flight as saint and seraph there,
She passes back through those vast gates of fire,
And slowly drops upon some flowery peak,
Or ocean isle, upon this mundane sphere;
Then sleeps soft in the folds of some fair flower,
Or, in the crystal bosom of a dewdrop.

MILLY.

A fairy thing was Milly when
  She blest my wondering sight;
I ne’er shall meet her match again—­
  A maid so gaily bright.

Her ringlets flowed about her neck—­
  A neck that mocked the snow! 
A sunny robe her bosom decked,
  That proudly heaved below.

Sometimes she roamed the leas at morn,
  And sang like a sweet bird—­
Until a melody was born
  On each outgushing word.

Sometimes amid her cottage home,
  She touched the breathing lyre,
And then her quivering lips were dumb,
  Her soaring soul on fire.

She was a very fairy maid;
  And then we sinned to crave
That she with us might be delayed,
  And never reach the grave.

One twilight when a star came forth,
  She clapped her hands and smil’d,
And said that star within the North
  Would take an earthly child.

Did some near, viewless angel speak
  That word unto the maid,
That thus with sweet, unblanched cheek,
  That awful word she said?

But thus it was; when autumn told
  The yellow leaves to fall,
The maid no more could we behold,
  No more she knew our call.

And now I watch that cold, high star,
  Amid the leaden North,
And think she looks on me afar,
  Forlorn upon this earth.

THE WINTRY DAYS.

The wintry days have come once more,
  The birds are still, the sweet flowers dead,
And faint winds sigh a wailing song
  O’er leaves heaped high within their bed.

The neighboring stream that lately leapt,
  And laughed, and played adown the glen,
Is now as hushed and mute as though
  It ne’er would leap and smile again.

A mournful silence fills the sky,
  And falls upon the gazer’s soul,
And down the sympathizing cheek,
  The watery teardrops silent roll.

The beauty of the peaks and plains,
  The loveliness of earth and sky,
Have passed away, and, passing, said,
  “Ye mortals frail! ye too must die.”