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