THE CLOUDS.

PAINTED clouds! sweet beauties of the sky! How have I viewed your motion and your rest, When, like fleet hunters, ye have left mine eye, In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest; Or in your threatened thunder's grave black vest, Like black deep waters slowly moving by ; Awfully striking the spectator's breast With your Creator's dread sublimity,

As admiration mutely views your storms. And I do love to see you idly lie,

Painted by heaven as various as your forms, Pausing upon an eastern mountain high.

CLARE

THE CLOUDS.

E glorious pageants! hung in air
To greet our raptured view,

What in creation can compare,

For loveliness, with you!

This earth is beautiful, indeed,

And in itself appeals

To eyes that have been taught to read

The beauties it reveals.

Its giant mountains, which ascend

To your exalted sphere,

And seem at times with you to blend
In majesty austere :

Its lovely valleys, forests vast;
Its rivers, lakes, and seas;
With every glance upon them cast,

The sight, the sense must please.

When through the eastern gates of heaven
The sun's first glories shine;
Or when his gentlest beams are given
To gild the day's decline;

All glorious as that orb appears,

His radiance still would lose
Each gentle charm, that most endears,
Without your softening hues.

When these with his refulgent rays
Harmoniously unite,

Who on your splendid pomp can gaze,
Nor feel a hushed delight?

'Tis then, if to the raptured eye
Her aid the Fancy brings,
In your own vision we descry
Unutterable things!

Not merely mountains, cliffs, and caves,
Domes, battlements, and towers,
Torrents of light, that fling their waves
O'er coral rocks and bowers;

Not only what to man is known
In nature or in art;

But objects which on earth can own
No seeming counterpart.

As once the seer in Patmos saw
Heaven's opening door revealed,
And scenes inspiring love and awe
To his rapt sight unsealed;

So, in a faint and low degree,
Through your unfoldings bright,
Phantoms of glory yet to be
Dawn on the wondering sight.

BARTON.

THE LITTLE CLOUD.

HE strange eventful scene is o'er, The prophet is alone once more, And now to Carmel's top repairs, To ask for rain with fervent prayers.

And, while he prays on bended knee,
He sends his servant oft to see
The long expected cloud appear
Above the ocean blue and clear.

Six times the servant seeks in vain
The welcome harbinger of rain;

Yet may Elijah not despair,—

He knows the Lord will answer prayer.

When, lo! the messenger descries
A cloud ascending to the skies;
Although no larger than a hand,
It quickly spreads o'er Israel's land.

The rain in torrents then descends,
And soon the dismal famine ends;
Again the verdant grass is seen,
Once more the land is clothed in green.

And will not this same God of love,
Who, from his glorious throne above,
Answered Elijah's humble cry,
Grant even us a kind reply?

O yes! the promises remain,
That none shall ever ask in vain;
The heartfelt sigh, the tearful word,
The fervent prayer will still be heard.

For when his people humbly bend,
In Jesus' name their prayers ascend;
Which he presents before the throne,
With intercessions of his own.

And when our blessed Lord imparts
A cloud of grace within our hearts,
Although no larger cloud arise
Than met Elijah's servant's eyes,

Yet still that cloud may surely spread,
And pure and holy influence shed,
Till floods of heavenly grace descend,
And sacred blessings without end.

ANON.

THE CLOUD.

WIFT sails the cloud across the skies,
When gathering tempests blow;

But swifter far its shadow flies

Athwart the vale below.

More swiftly still the life of man

Flits on through glare or gloom; And every hour contracts the space Betwixt us and the tomb.

The cloud shall soon dissolve in rain,
The shadow cease to be;
But man departs to live again,
From future changes free:
Yet, if a crown of endless joy

Shall deck his faithful brow,

Or quenchless flames his peace destroy,
Must be determined now.

Though here his hours appear so brief,
Each scatters from its wing

The seeds whence fruits of bliss or grief
Through ceaseless ages spring.
Then happy he whose lowly mind
Delights God's law to keep;
While he who madly sows the wind,
Shall but the whirlwind reap.

What though the saint may often hide
His head oppressed with woes?

The stream which rends the mountain's side
Sheds verdure as it flows.

Who lives to Christ with Christ shall reign,
When countless years are gone;

And none so abject but may gain

A title to his throne.

DR. HUIE.

THE CLOUD.

BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.