SONNET.

Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn

As if a sleep upon the hours had crept;

And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn

In dull, impenetrable masses slept,

And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and all

Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.

Suddenly on the horizon's edge, a blue

And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,

And, as it wider and intenser grew,

The darkness removed silently away,

And, with the splendor of a God, broke through

The perfect glory of departing day —

So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,

Will light upon the dying Christian pour.