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THE PENITENT.
She would not, in her tranquil sleep,
Return a single sigh!
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
And murmur, summer-streams—
There is no need of other sound
To soothe my lady's dreams.
Ellis.
THE PENITENT.
I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice
That thou shouldst sorrow so;
With anger choirs I join my voice
To bless the sinner's woe.
Though friends and kindred turn away,
And laugh thy grief to scorn;
I hear the great Redeemer say,
"Blessed are ye that mourn."
Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange
That earthly cords are riven:
Man may lament the wondrous change,
But "there is joy in heaven!"
Acton.
