The lord, the tamer of dark souls—Remorse?
Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky,
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony,
Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day
In light and sound are hurrying on their way:
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart,
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start,
Call’d up by solitude, each nerve to thrill
With accents heard not, save when all is still!
The voice, inaudible when havoc’s strain