Think’st thou no pulse beats in that bounteous breast
Which once sent throbs of rapture east and west?
Nay, but she liveth, mighty tho’ opprest.
Her arm could reach as low as hell, as high
As the white mountains and the starry sky;
She filled the empty heavens with her cry.
Wait but a space, and watch—her trance of pain
Shall dry away—her tears shall cease as rain—
Queen of the nations, she shall smile again!
The Ladder of St. Augustine.