FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS

THEN sighed the Wandering Angel sore, And turned one lingering look, and last, Upon the dead; and, rising o'er The lake, the groves, the dell, he passed On sailing pinions, broad and bright, Along the footsteps of the night, And down the pathway of the wind, Until he faded westward far,— A glory in the deep enshrined, The brother of the morning star— And dropt upon the burning bar Of the horizon, and passed on Under its shadow, and was gone. And loud and shrilly sang the lark; And lovely waxed the risen day, And laughed through every dewy spark That on the groves and meadows lay; And all the level leas o'erflowed With light; and all the copses glowed Throughout; and over every slope Trembled a glory, like the hope Of future summers, seen through tears Of autumn, down the rolling years; And from the bosom of the brook A thousand happy memories shook; And on the still and smiling lake The lingering lilies seemed to wake Once more into their bygone bloom, And breathed a soul of fresh perfume: And all the sombre cypress lit In the light shaking over it; And even the hoary willow took A smile from Nature's happy look.