And stars as calmly watching o’er as once in days bygone
When Cæsar’s dearest pastime won his slaves a deathless crown.
“Miserere, miserere,”
Seemed the night-wind lowly sighing;
“Call thy erring sheep, O Saviour,
Dearest Lord of love undying!”
Soft then I saw advancing through the darkness’ mighty shade
A tall and stately figure in wide, trailing robes arrayed,
The fair, white arms in longing stretched, as if in woe to seek
The comfort of the broken heart, the strength of all the weak—