Stole sweetly on that hour of midnight rest,

Like angel song breathed out by spirit blest.

’Twas plaintive—yet ’twas heavenly. Such a thing

May be, why may it not? Such tones may best

Become redeemed spirits, when they sing

The bleeding, dying love, of Heaven’s eternal King.

XXVIII.

And yet ’twas earthly music. There was one

Who loved to warble at the midnight hour;

She was a stricken mourner—prone to shun