Classic Poem

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
— A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
— O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
— Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
— Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
— To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
— Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.