. Poems . dning blast, f The sails were furled: with many a melting close,Solemn and slow the evening-anthem to the Virgin. Twas the hour of day,When setting suns oer summer-seas displayA path of glory, opening in the westTo golden climes, and islands of the blest;And human voices, on the silent oer the waves in songs of gladness there! Chosen of Men ! Twas thine, at noon of from the prow to hail the glimmering light; * Ex ligiio liicido confectiim, ct arte miiu laboratum. P. i. 5. t ^lit- yiiiioom. K K 250 (Euibleni of Truth divine, whose secret rayE
. Poems . dning blast, f The sails were furled: with many a melting close,Solemn and slow the evening-anthem to the Virgin. Twas the hour of day,When setting suns oer summer-seas displayA path of glory, opening in the westTo golden climes, and islands of the blest;And human voices, on the silent oer the waves in songs of gladness there! Chosen of Men ! Twas thine, at noon of from the prow to hail the glimmering light; * Ex ligiio liicido confectiim, ct arte miiu laboratum. P. i. 5. t ^lit- yiiiioom. K K 250 (Euibleni of Truth divine, whose secret rayEnters the soul, and makes the darkness day!) Pedro ! Rourigo ! there, methought, it shone !There—in the west! and now, alas, tis gone!—Twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain!—But mark and speak not, there it comes again!It moves !—what form unseen, what being thereWith torch-like lustre fires the murky air ?His instincts, passions, say, how like our own?Oh! when will day reveal a world unknown?. CANTO IX. The New World. Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,Then rose, reveahng, as they rolled away,Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woodsSweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floodsAnd say, when all, to holy transport given,Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven, 252 When one and all of us, repentant, ran. And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous Man; Say, was 1 then deceived, or from the skies Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? * Glory to God . unnumbered voices sung, * Glory to God! the vales and mountains rung, Voices that hailed Creations primal morn. And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bare-headed, thro the surf we boreThe sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the what a scene was there ? Nymphs of romance,Youths giaceful as the Faun, with eager from the glades, and down the alleys head-long rush, bounding from steep to steep,And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run, Come andbehold the Children o
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