Painful is to him its beauty—
Sad the splendour of the sun;
To the odorous air he utters
Sorrow that is never done:—
"Blest was I beyond all blessing!
"In my wife and children blest:
"In my friends and in my fortune—
"Yet in peace I could not rest.
"Never in his prosperous greatness,
"Can himself the wisest trust;
"God has weighed and found me wanting—
"And the punishment is just."
Oft before the cross, the altar,
Murmuring prayer he sinks to rest;
To his God, and to his Saviour—
And the Virgin Mother blest.
And for love unto the Virgin
Finds in Heaven his prayer chief grace!
"Mary, Mother, me deliver,
"From the horrors of this place!
"Others crave more worldly guerdon—
"Wealth, or fame, or station high;
"Love I seek—to see my country—
"My own people—and to die!"
Praying thus, old legends tell us,
Scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed;
When, O, happy inward vision,
To him was his home revealed.
There his patrimonial mansion,
He beheld in moonlight sleep,
Saw with joy though mystery veiled it—
Sadness and a silence deep.
And, O miracle of gladness!
More, those ancient legends say,
Was permitted him to witness,
Waking, in the open day.
In his old church-porch awaking—
Trance, or voyage all unknown;
O'er his own domains he wandered—
Saw, and knew them for his own.