The perils of the deep, at least, are o'er,

No fell disease has struck, with vengeful power,

His form to earth, to this protracted hour.

He sees the land—before his gaze unfold

The mighty, gorgeous realms of guilt and gold.

How swells his bursting heart with evil pride!

Cursed pride, for which so many souls have died.

Accursed pride of Lucre—loathsome Dame

Of every sin on earth that hath a name.

In fancy now he sees his palace soar