When from its thralling dust the soul is riven.
He breathes, so long it blesses him below,
The native air of Heaven!
SOLITUDE.
———
BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.
———
Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!
A solitude of deep and holy thought—
When from its thralling dust the soul is riven.
He breathes, so long it blesses him below,
The native air of Heaven!
———
BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.
———
Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!
A solitude of deep and holy thought—