I.
Night o'er the Santee! up the sky
The pale moon went with misty eye;
And in the west a brooding cloud—
Departed day's wind-lifted shroud—
Waved slowly in the depths of blue,
While now and then a world looked through
The broken edge, as from above
Steals down a seraph's glance of love,
Through sorrow's cloud and mortal air,
On breaking hearts or tearful prayer.