And in the silence of the midnight trance,
In snowy robe she comes to cheer my sight;
So holy, so benignant is her glance,
Her brow so placid,—and her eye so bright,
I know she loves me still:—and oh! that thought
Shall strongly nerve my soul to do the things it ought.
MOURN YE THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD?
Yon pilgrim see, in vestments grey,
Whose bleeding feet bedew his way,
O'er arid sands, with want opprest,
Who toiling knows no place of rest:
Mourn ye, because the long sought shrine
He clasps in ecstacy divine,
And lays his load of sin and gloom
Repentant on his Saviour's tomb?—
—Behold yon ship with wrecking form
Which vails her proud mast to the storm,
Wild winds and waves with headlong force
Impel her on her dang'rous course;
The pallid crew their hope resign
And powerless view the foaming brine;
Mourn ye, because the tempest dies,
And in her haven moor'd she lies?—
—Emerging from the field of strife
Where slaughter'd throngs have sold their life,
Yon warrior see, with gushing veins,
Who scarce his noble steed restrains,
