CRUCE AND CORONA.
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Of him whose long-lost presence now restoredWith joy complete her spirit's depths doth fill.
O Great and Holy Father, in thy care,Thy kind, all-pow'rful care, we leave this one;And through her may thy holy will be done.
IV.
How bright, and yet how softly, falls the lightOf morn's clear beams upon those palm-trees tall,Whose broad green leaves hang mute and motionlessWithin the breezeless air!Beneath their shadeThe missionary's home. Here dwells Crucè.Within the walls where first her infant eyesBeheld the light of earth, her presence nowCreates the home-light. Like an exiled birdRegaining after lonely wearinessIts native place, spreads glad its flutt'ring wingsOr folds them quietly in peace and rest,So doth the maiden's spirit in the joyAnd peace of her new-found, lost native home.
Through long, bright hours of golden summer-time,Crucè bends over volumes strangely writ;For through their native language must the light
