Of what within his secret heart befell,
Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought
Of his far home then so intensely wrought,
That its full image, pictured to his eye
On the dark ground of mortal agony,
Rose clear as day!—and he might see the band
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand,
Where the laburnums droop’d; or haply binding
The jasmine up the door’s low pillars winding;
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth,