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 labour, 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 Earth as on an open book;     On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,     And the long ways that seem her lands;     And hear her humming cities, and the sound     Of the great ocean breaking round.     Ay, I would sail upon thy air-borne car     To blooming regions distant far,     To where the sun of Andalusia shines     On his own olive-groves and vines,     Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky     In smiles upon her ruins lie.     But I would woo the winds to let us rest     O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed,     Whose sons at length have heard the call that 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     Should come, to purple all the air,     And thou reflect upon the sacred ground     The ruddy radiance streaming round.     Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made!     Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.     The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,     Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold:     The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown     In the dark heaven when storms come down;     And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye     Miss thee, for ever, from the sky.