Its crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed,
It matters not—and for it she must pray!
Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity,
To calm the sorrow that with lava streams,
Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul,
And when she feels it crushing darkly through
A bosom all too soft to stem its tide
Of bitter, burning waters—then, for power
To “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays.
And oh! when human love has taught her heart