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By the last lingering help of open sky,
Till the dark night dismissed her to her bed.
Thus did a waking Fancy sometimes lose
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
A kindlier passion opened on her soul
When that poor Child was born. Upon its face
She looked as on a pure and spotless gift
Of unexpected promise, where a grief
Or dread was all that had been thought of—joy
Far sweeter than bewildered Traveller feels
Upon a perilous waste, where all night long
Through darkness he hath toiled and fearful storm,
When he beholds the first pale speck serene
Of day-spring—in the gloomy east revealed,
And greets it with thanksgiving. "Till this hour,"
Thus in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake,
"There was a stony region in my heart;
"But he, at whose command the parched rock
"Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream,
"Hath softened that obduracy, and made
"Unlooked-for gladness in the desart place,
