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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
XVIII. CONVERSION.
Loud as that trumpet doomed to raise the deadGod's voice doth sometimes fall on us in fear,
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Low whispering, ‘It is I: be not afraid.’
And sometimes, mingling strangely joy with dread,
It thrills the spirit's caverned sepulchre
Deep as that voice which on the awe-struck ear
Of him, the three-days-buried, murmuring, said
‘Come forth’—and he arose. O Christians, hail
As brethren all on whom our glorious Sun
At morn, or noon, or latest eve, hath shone
With light, and life: and neither mourn nor rail
Because one light, itself unchanging, showers
A thousand colours on a thousand flowers.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |