A PAGAN SONNET.

THE silent mountains, purple-robed, like kings,

Stand waiting for the coming of the night.

They feel her solemn presence as the light

Fades slowly from their crowns. The sun-god flings

His last red beams, tingeing the silver wings

Of clouds rejoicing in their eastward flight.

Will they be first to see his chariot bright

Emerging from the ocean, when he brings

His bride, the Day, to glad the world again?

Ah! soon they vanish from the sight of men,

In darkness flying on, their fate the wind.

The rosy hues of hope are often vain.

Fate is relentless, as we mortals find.

Farewell, ye clouds, to your own future blind.