Where the enduring and the wing’d are met.
Hush, proud voices! gentle be your falling!
Woman’s lot thus chainless may not be;
Hush! the heart your trumpet-sounds are calling,
Darkly still may grow—but never free!
THE PROCESSION.
“‘The peace which passeth all understanding,’ disclosed itself in her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight.”—Coleridge.
There were trampling sounds of many feet,
And music rush’d through the crowded street:
Proud music, such as tells the sky