Those who mysterious vigils keep,
When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep,
To judge of crimes, like Him on high,
In stillness and in secrecy?
Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree
’Tis fruitless to resist or flee?
Whose name hath cast a spell of power
O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower?
Thy sire—oh, Ella! hope is fled!
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead!