And purchased strength from each increasing load.
Goldsmith.
A dungeon, dark and drear
As death, but in its cold and gloomy depths
I see a form of beauty, round whose locks
A glory plays, that lights the dungeon with
A quivering lustre—she is stretched upon
The damp cold earth, her head is pillowed on
One arm, the while its fellow presses to
Her heart a holy volume. O’er her eyes