X.

And then the drear sharp tongue of prophecy, With the dread sense of things which shall be done, Doth smite me inly, like a sword: a sword? _That_ "smites the Shepherd." Then, I think aloud The words "despised,"--"rejected,"--every word Recoiling into darkness as I view The DARLING on my knee. Bright angels,--move not--lest ye stir the cloud Betwixt my soul and His futurity! I must not die, with mother's work to do, And could not live-and see.