She has gone—he has heard the last sound of her tread;
He has caught the last glimpse of her robes at the door;—
She has gone, and the joy that her presence had shed,
May cheer the sad heart of Lord Nithsdale no more.
And the prisoner pray'd in his dungeon alone,
And thought of the morn and its dreadful array,
Then rested his head on his pillow of stone,
And slumber'd an hour ere the dawning of day.
Oh, balm of the Weary! Oh, soother of pain!
That still to the sad givest pity and dole;