Blood has a voice to pierce the skies;
Revenge! the blood of Abel cries;
But the dear stream when Christ was slain,
Speaks peace aloud from every vein.
Watts.
Adjacent rose a myrtle-planted mound,
Whose spiry top a granite fragment crowned.
Tinctured with many-coloured moss the stone,
Rich as a cloud of summer-evening shone,
Amid encircling verdure that arrayed