Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill
To the low footstep of each coming ill;—
Oh! canst Thou dream of rest?
Bear up thy dream! thou Mighty and thou Weak
Heart, strong as Death, yet as a reed to break,
As a flame, tempest swayed!
He that sits calm on High is yet the source
Whence thy Soul's current hath its troubled course,
He that great Deep hath made!
Will He not pity?—He, whose searching eye