But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.
—EMMA TUCKER.
[ LINES WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. ]
Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dim obscurity around him!
Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,