William Green

FROM the unbarring to the shut of day,

Ay, ofttimes restless in the midnight blind,

His loss I mourn; it lies upon my mind

Like a thick mist that will not clear away,

But bodes, and brings, griefs showers. His was a sway

Of soul so gentle, we alone might find,

Not see its strength; a wit, that, ever kind,

Would spare the humbled in its freest play;—

A silent, boastless stream, smooth, clear, but deep;—

His mighty powers attired themselves so plain

They drew no worship though they won the heart:

Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep;

But, as of visiting gods the poets feign,

We knew him not, till turning to depart.