 | Plays and poems |  |
443
[As a sad hermit in his cloistered cell]
As a sad hermit in his cloistered cell,With the lone image of his martyred Lord,
The last, best treasure of a wasted hoard,
Do I alone with thy dear image dwell.
To thee alone my sinking heart shall swell,
To thee alone my scalding tears be poured;
And to such vows as thou didst once accord
I'll shape my faith to thee invisible.
And when Death's hand within my own be pressed—
Welcome as friendship's cordial pressure—I
Will grasp his icy fingers, doubly blest;
And down to happy dreams of thee will lie,
With thy sweet promise cradled in my breast,
With thy sweet image beaming in my eye.
| Plays and poems | |