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