LINES IN ILLNESS.
113
When this harp, so strained with anguish,
Shall breathe out its last farewell,
When this aching heart shall languish
With the thoughts it cannot tell?
Shall breathe out its last farewell,
When this aching heart shall languish
With the thoughts it cannot tell?
Dark and dismal seems the morrow,
Yet the spirit waters flow;
Of a heavenly light I borrow,
Feeling then 'twere sweet to go:
Then, again, the lamp burns dimmer,
Dungeon darkness me surrounds,
Catch I but the faintest glimmer
Of those bowers where health abounds.
Yet the spirit waters flow;
Of a heavenly light I borrow,
Feeling then 'twere sweet to go:
Then, again, the lamp burns dimmer,
Dungeon darkness me surrounds,
Catch I but the faintest glimmer
Of those bowers where health abounds.
