Of guilt and penitence of yore.
Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter’d pangs revealing,
Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair
Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear?
—Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought