'Mid tombs, in market-places, prisons, fields;
'Mid clamor, vile attack,—or deep-awed hush,
Wherein celestial visitants drew near
And secret ministered to troubled souls!
Hear ye, O hear! that ceaseless-pleading voice,
Which storm, nor suffering, nor age could still—
Chief prophet voice through nigh a century's span!
Now silvery as Zion's dove that mourns,
Now quelling as the Archangel's judgment trump,
And ever with a sound like that of old