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CRUCE AND CORONA.
In queenly grace she from his presence glides;In momentary twilight vanish nowThe moon and stars; the sun is left alone.
Once more Crucè doth turn her tearful gazeUpon Corona. On her death-white faceThe peace ascends to rapture, and her eyesAre lit with radiance from upper lands.In clear, sweet tones like sound of seraph lute,She cries, "'Tis come, 'tis come, th' eternal day!Love folds its white wings o' er my soul, and cries,'Thou camest from the Infinite, and now,O soul! to that same Infinite return.'"
Her eyes close softly in the beautiful,The last sweet sleep, the type of perfect rest.The airs around, within that bow'r are fraughtWith angel benedictions. And her lipsMove lightly, whisp'ring from the shores of death,"I see the land that is very far off,I see the King in his beauty."
The yearsThrice circling now have joined the silent past.'Tis past the midnight hour; the silent stars
