Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm
Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm;
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot,
The past, the future, are awhile forgot;
And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast,
Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”
Such his vague musings—but a plaintive sound
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round;
A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise
From life and death’s contending agonies.