Whene’er by passion crost,
And, angel-like, restore us
The paradise we lost.
Charles Swain.
’Tis the angel Love,
He, who for ever strives with Death, and yet
Doth live! I see a form erect and motionless,
Veiled with a cloud of darkness, that no eye
Can pierce; that spectre form is Death, and there
I see Love crushed and bleeding ’neath his feet: