He calls thee now from this rude stormy world,
To thy Redeemer's breast—And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived,—my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.
Blanche (rising.)Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit.—I can rise
And say—"Thy will be done!"
D'Arbigné (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!—Fearfully
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.
(They sing together.)
PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN.
We see no more, in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every coloured hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding Beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though Man hath barr'd it from our sight.
And bless Thee still with free and boundless trust!
We read no more, O God! thy ways
On Earth, in these wild evil days.
The rod severe in th' oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the Past,
Which tells us, these things cannot last;
And by the Hope which finds no Ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark;
We trust Thee!—As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.
And bless Thee still with Love's own boundless trust.
We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer—and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of Thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on;
