The wearying place of his unrest, that morn
With its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow,
And with its breath allay the feverish heat
That burnt within. Alas! the gales of morn
Reach not the fever of a wounded heart!
How shall he meet his Mother’s eye, how make
His secret known, and from that voice revered
Obtain forgiveness, ... all that he has now
To ask, ere on the lap of earth in peace
He lay his head resign’d? In silent prayer