36
TWILIGHT.
Say, is there aught
Like the tried friendship of the sacred dead?
It cannot hide its face, it changeth not,
Grieves not, suspects not, may not fleet away,
For as a seal upon the melted heart
Tis set forever.—Sure 'tis weak to mourn
Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts
Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come
Such angel-visitants at even-tide,
Or midnight's holy hush, to cleanse away
The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch
Pure and ethereal to sublimate
The erring spirit.
