Professor John Wilson (1785–1854)

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;

E’en 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 onward to the golden gates of Heaven;

Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,

And tells to man its glorious destinies.