"THE Rose is sweet no more," I hear a voice complain; "The morning-glow of yore Comes not again. "No more the sunset skies Keep their old molten gold; Life and the world grow cold," That sad voice sighs. But look! Far overhead, Scarce risen, scarce begun, In nascent glory spread, Another sun. And from the mountain snows, on golden feet, Life's Lord leaps down, and makes Creation sweet. And every opening flower Breathes with a perfumed breath, Day's new ascending power Dispelling Death. And the world, risen from the shame of night, Turns to the Orient and acclaims the Light. |