PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.
113
Blanche, (rising.)Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit.—I can rise
And say, "Thy will be done!"
D'Aubigné, (pointing upwards.) Seest thou, my child,
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating!—Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy Fear or wavering Faith
Silenced the strain?—No! let it waft to Heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more!—And we will sleep—
Yes—calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
