Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon-grating! Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep,
Yes—calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.