The march of hosts that haste to meet Seems gayer than the dance to me; The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet As the fierce shout of victory. TO A CLOUD. BEAUTIFUL cloud! with folds so soft and fair, Swimming in the pure quiet air! Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow; Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train, As cool it comes along the grain. Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee In thy calm way o'er land and sea : To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, To where the sun of Andalusia shines On his own olive-groves and vines, Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky In smiles upon her ruins lie. But I would woo the winds to let us rest comes From the old battle-fields and tombs, And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke Has touched its chains, and they are broke. Ay, we would linger till the sunset there Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made ! The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, In the dark heaven when storms come down; And weep in rain till man's inquiring eye Miss thee, for ever, from the sky. |