AT A FESTIVAL. 307
Yes, uninterpreted and drear,
Toil onward with benighted mind ; Still kneel at prayers thou canst not hear,
And grope for truth thou may'st not find.
No scroll of friendship, or of love,
Must breathe soft language o'er thy heart ;
Nor that blest Book which guides above, Its message to thy soul impart.
But Thou who didst on Calvary die, Flows not thy mercy wide and free ?
Thou who didst rend of Death the tie, Is Nature's seal too strong for Thee ?
And Thou, O Spirit pure ! whose rest
Is with the lowly, contrite train, Illume the temple of her breast,
And cleanse of latent ill the stain,
That she, whose pilgrimage below Was night that never hoped a morn,
That undeclining day may know Which of eternity is born.
The great transition who can tell,
When from the ear its seal shall part,
Where countless lyres seraphic swell, And holy transport thrills the heart ;
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