Glory won ’gainst beauty’s brush in painting sunset skies,
But paling now, upon the hills in rosy languor lies:
All breathing life, with her, seems panting for a cooling breeze,
For winds have stopped ’mid ocean isles, to toss the gleaming spray
And spicy odors rich, along the golden path of day;
And motionless, awaiting Beauty’s Star, stand all the trees,
While Erse, from her stores, besprinkles earth with gems,
From mantling robes of green, to flower-broidered hems.
But mortals, restless aye, will burden all life’s golden hours
With low complainings, forgetting bounty’s blessing showers,
Impatient, beg the one withheld for other days and needs,
Nor see the plan inwoven, that the world’s wide hunger feeds;
Nor ken the flashes on the sultry air, above the plain,
Are the wings of ripening angels, sweeping o’er the grain.