Of morning, which comes over them that keep
Pained watches through the night;—till tardily
The morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.
XXIX.
When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,
His eyes unclosed—and stood in each a tear,
And round his mouth a sweeter smile did play
Than ever might on mortal lips appear:
No mortal joy could ever have come near
The joy that bred that smile—with waking eye