With a young spirit of ethereal hope
Caught from thy mien!—Oh no! this is not death!
Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our chain,
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes
As a deliverer? He hath many forms—
They should not all be fearful! If his call
Be but our gathering to that distant land,
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst,
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne
Into the heart’s deep stillness, with a breath