Page:Poems Proctor.djvu/58

When friends have fled, and love is lost,
 And darkest ills betide,
There's a gleam of wings athwart the sky,
 And the peace of the glorified
Falls on his soul as the gentle dew
 Descends on the parching plain,—
And he knows that his angel heard his sighs
 And stooped to heal his pain.
Nor cares he when, or where, or how
 The hour of his death may come,
For the Lord of the saints will welcome him,
 And his angel bear him home.
And, to mark his faith's devotion,
 As a jewel of love and pride
He bears on his breast forever
 The cross of the Crucified;—
Bright with rubies and diamonds,
 Fashioned of silver and gold,
Or only carved from the cedar
 That grows on the windy wold;
Cut from a stone of the Ourals,
 Or the amber that strews the shore;—
Close to his heart he wears it
 Till his pulses beat no more.

O happy, Holy Russia!
 Thrice favored of the Lord!
Around whose towers, when danger lowers,
 The saints keep watch and ward!
She need not fear the marshalled hosts
 Of her haughtiest Christian foe;