XV.

O Heaven! methinks, from thy soft skies, Look'd tearful down the angel-eyes; Back to those walls to mark them go, Hand clasp'd in hand--the Foe and Foe! And when the sun sunk slowly there, Low knelt the prayerless man in prayer. He knelt, no more the lonely one; Within, secure, a comrade sleeps; That sun shall not go down upon A desert in the deeps.