LXVIII.
O blessed power of Love! that still can keep
A quiet haven for the weary soul,
When o'er the sea of life grief-tempests sweep,
And surging billows o'er contentment roll;
And thither though Affliction's cloud be deep
The heart steers true beneath its sweet controul!
To him, the loved, the lost, thus basely spurned,
She fled a prisoner from Death's chains return'd.