Roam dimly through the haunted spot,
And earth holds not a land so drear
As the sad heart that owns thee not,
Where sorrows wound and pleasures pall,
And death's dread shadow darkens all.
5But lift thy sceptre there, its bowers
Shall be serene and sweet and fair,
And, as in time's primeval hours,
The holy ones shall gather there,
And heaven's own peace the soul o'erflow,