"Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye,
Our brother's bounding step—where are they, where?
Desolate, desolate our chambers lie!
—How hast thou won thy spirit from despair?
O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep;—
I sink away—bear with me—let me weep!"
"Yes! weep, my Sister! weep, till from thy heart
The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou not!
I bind my sorrow to a lofty part,
For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot
To meet in quenchless trust; my soul is strong—
Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long.
"A breath of our free heavens and noble sires,
A memory of our old victorious dead,—
These mantle me with power! and though their fires
In a frail censer briefly may be shed,
Yet shall they light us onward, side by side;—
Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide?
