Whose kindling rays I vainly sought from them.
“But there’s a hollow seeming in their mirth
That chimes not with the joy my bosom feels;
And the glad music of the teeming earth,
From breasts that men call soulless, o’er me steals
With more of sympathy than hath been given
By those who claim the heritage of heaven.
“Still hath my life led down a vale of Eden;
Where mystic foot-prints marked the dewy sod;
As if some angel’s steps had near me trodden,