How _dark_ are these skies! a deep drapery of cloud Oer the smiling young face of the morning was flung:— Noon gave not his light; and the same gloomy shroud Round the throne of the moon, all the evening has hung. Yet these dark skies have drest the earth In a white robe that knows no stain. So white-robed Virtue has her birth In days of gloom, and nights of pain. How _sad_ are these skies! Their bright hues are all dead! The morning and evening no longer are fair! They mourn their lost sun;—and the tears, that they shed, Are frozen, as they fall through the sorrowful air. Yet these sad skies, whose hosts of light Have all their glittering banners furled, These skies are sending down, to-night, Their treasured jewels to our world. So, in the hours when most we grieve,— The hours of sadness and of sighs, Believe me Mary,—we receive The choicest blessings of the skies. How _cold_ are these skies! Hoary Winter, reclined On his snow-wreaths, the charms of earth’s bosom deforms; And the fields, and the groves, and the heavens are resigned To the rule, and the wrath of the Spirit of Storms, Yet these cold skies the earth have drest In saint like vesture, white and warm; And spread a mantle o’er her breast To shield it from the freezing storm. So not the coldest blast that flies O’er hope’s young flowers the heart shall chill, If in the storm, it lowly lies, And waits the All-Ruling Spirit’s will. How _clear_ are these skies!—no heaven-ward mist Going up from the earth, their bright arch dims. Not a cloud, all the morning their fair face kissed; Not a cloud, now at noon, in their blue depth swims. Yet these clear skies, so pure, so bright, So smiling,—o’er a cold world bend;— A world where many a freezing night And wintry day we’re doomed to spend. Then, when the world looks cold on you, And your lone heart with grief is swelling, Look up!—for all the pure and true, _There_ is a high and holy dwelling. 14 Jan^y. 1827.— HYMN FOR A DYING BED. Composed by C. Beecher, for L. Waite. And is there one who knows each grief, And counts the tears his children shed, Whose soothing hand can bring relief And smooth, and cheer their painful bed? Saviour, invisible, yet dear! Friend of the helpless, art thou near?