The birthright of the faithful!—their world’s wave
Soon swept them from its brink. Oh! deem thou not
That on the sad and consecrated spot
My soul grew weak! I tell thee that a power
There kindled heart and lip—a fiery shower
My words were made—a might was given to prayer,
And a strong grasp to passionate despair,
And a dread triumph! Know’st thou what I sought?
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought?
—Communion with the dead! I sent a cry