Whether sent from heaven directly, or by chance cast here ashore,
Blessings many on thee rest now! yea, thou surely shalt be blest now!
Come into my open’d breast now—tell me truly, I implore,
Is there a heaven of rest and rapture? tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the white bird, “Evermore!”
XVI.
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story,
By that Heav’n which bends above us—by the God the good adore,
Tell this soul with hope upspringing—faith undying to it bringing—
If that radiant matron singing midst the angels, named Annore,