THE PILGRIM.
89
Though sometimes mid the husks I fed,
And turn'd me from the children's bread,
Still bid thine angel-harps resound,
The dead doth live, the lost is found.
Reach forth thy hand with pitying care,
And guide me through the latest snare;
Methinks, even now, in bursting beams
The radiance from thy casement streams;
No more I shed the pilgrim tear;
I hear thy voice, my home is near.
