LXIV.

And with a milder pang if now I bear To think of thee in thy forsaken rest, If from my heart be lifted the despair, The sharp remorse with healing influence press’d, If the soft eyes that visit me in sleep Look not reproach, though still they seem to weep; It is that He my sacrifice hath bless’d, And fill’d my bosom, through its inmost cell, With a deep chastening sense that all at last is well.