Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue.
And such shall be thy music, when the cells,
Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells,
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought,
In silence broods o’er many a fearful thought,)
Resound to pity’s voice; and childhood thence,
Ere the cold blight hath reach’d its innocence,
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled,
Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead,
Shall at the call press forward, to be made