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CRUCE AND CORONA.
Again it is the quiet Sabbath ev'n.Corona and Crucè within the bow'rHave waited for their aged teacher long.He comes not; though a Sabbath's sunset lightIn beauty resting on this lovely isleCorona and Crucè shall see no more;For when a few more morning dawns shall come,The mission-ship shall bear them far away,Crucè to heathen lands; in Italy,The shrine of Art, Corona's home shall be.Now, weary with their waiting, from the bow'rThey wend their way along the circling ridgeOf moss-grown rocks, and reach the old man's cot.
But not in solitude, as was his wont,With welcome smile their teacher meets them there;For friends with pallid faces at the doorThe pupils meet; in pitying silence gazedUpon them; for they know the sacred tieThat to his pupils binds the teacher's soul. They enter. By a window, where the lightOf sunset's dying gleams with glory crownHis head so hoary, sits the aged man,A holy rapture resting on his brow,And in his eye the far-beholding lightThat comes to many in the dying hour;
