CRUCE AND CORONA.
181
Look down in solemn beauty on the earth.The crescent moon is rising o'er the hills:Its slight beams, falling now on dungeon-barsAnd entering through the blackened gratings, restAmong Crucè's dark locks; for once againThe prison-walls have shut her from her work.
But Heav'n is drawing nigh, and weary earthReceding from her soul. Her lips revealThe vision that before her spirit gleams,And in their dying accents whisper low, "They come, my father, mother, sister-friend!They come, the angels a resplendent band!I wait, O Saviour! yes, Thou too art come,And I to Thee am swiftly coming now.I pass the angels round me whisp'ring low,'The crown! the crown!' and still to Thee I come,And, to thy holy presence now received,Thou'lt crown me with the glory of thy love,With its infinitude of depth and height.My soul forever asks no other crown!"
