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ANGELS. |
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So late, that it seems like a dream of the night, Which on wings of the morning has flown—
How can I believe that he sleeps in the grave How can I believe he has gone!
They are here, they are here ! Say, have ye not heard
That the pure and the blest often come AVith a message of love from the heavenly land,
And as guardians to pilot us home ? Ye spirits of Paradise! say, are ye here
To fill up the circle so lone ? 0, let me believe ye are hovering near,
For I sorrow to think ye are gone!
1815.
ANGELS.-Angels from their native bowers,
On their starry pinions, Come to this sad world of ours,
Search its dark dominious.
And where'er contrition's sigh
'Scapeth from the lowly, They are sure to linger nigh
With a transport holy.
And wherever faith is found ■ In the heart upspringing, Those bright hosts encamp around, Jov and solace bringing. 11 |
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