The suttee.
137
Burn! burn! glare upward to the skies,
Paint the low hills and creeping night;
Louder the shrieking south-wind cries,
And terror speeds the lessening light.
Paint the low hills and creeping night;
Louder the shrieking south-wind cries,
And terror speeds the lessening light.
Slowly these eager tongues aspire;
I shudder, though they set me free.;
Go, coward senses, to the fire—
But the wing'd soul, oh God! to Thee!
I shudder, though they set me free.;
Go, coward senses, to the fire—
But the wing'd soul, oh God! to Thee!
