Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil. ’Tis the might
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice
Unto the forest and the cataract,
The angry colour to the clouds of morn,
The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch,
When of the murderer’s poison’d shaft he died,
I knelt and pray’d; he named his Saviour’s name,