.92 



ANGLING. 



thy beaming spendour, as lessening from sight mid 

 sweet umbrageous shores, thou seek^st thine ocean 

 of eternity ! Why in this murky night of dark 

 December dost thou revisit thus my soul's recesses ? 

 Why in the chambers of mine imagery art thou 

 with all thy pomp of summer glory brought up 

 uncalled before me ? The lustre now grows dim, 

 and fades away, but not on this green earth, on 

 grassy bank or high uplifted mountain, can such 

 effulgent gleams as those surround me. For why ? 

 Old man, the summer of thy youth made that por- 

 tentous blaze. Father of light and life, 



" Not without hope we suffer and we mourn." 



