SONNET IX.

A golden cloud came floating o'er my head,

With kindred glories round the sun to blend!

Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead;

— Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.

I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end:

A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed,

The beauty of the crimson west subdued,

And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend,

The silent happiness of eve renew'd.

Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood

Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise;

But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued,

When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice,

— God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!