xx.
But woe's the hour! My heart is wounded sore,
And soon may cease to take, as heretofore,
Such keen delight in tears that comfort not,
But evermore do seem to leave a blot
On sorrow's teaching! Shall I muse thereon
One season more, till hope and faith be gone?
Or must I look for comfort up in Heaven
And then be slain by thee as night by dawn?
