For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness. He calls
His brother to the land of golden light
And ever-living fountains—couldst thou hear
His voice o’er those bright waters, it would say,
“My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again.”
Enonio, (hesitating.) Can I return
Unto my tribe, and unavenged?
Herrmann. To Him,