As that purest arch
Of Heaven’s own light.
“Like ye that, young heart? Alas! ’Tis long since I learned the ditty. Hark ye, here is one more sad and sombre, for I see the tear-drop in your eye. Hark—hark:—
“The storm bird may scream
O’er the desolate moor,
And the north wind blow wide
The poor cottager’s door.
The snow drift may level
Mountain with plain,
But the sunlight will come,