Sweet was thy presence, welcomed guest; And I, responsive to thy call, Arose, and felt within my breast A power that made the fetters fall From off my long enthrallèd soul, And woke, as with a magic spell, Griefs which yet owned the soft control Of hopes that all might still be well.
But ah, thou wast an injured guest! How soon departed, soon forgot, Were all the hopes of coming rest That clustered round the Better Thought-- The tender griefs, the firm resolves, The yearnings after better days, Like transient sunlight which dissolves, And leaves no traces of its rays!
Yet I despair not--through the night That long has reigned with tyrant sway, E'en now I see the opening light, The harbinger of coming day; To Heaven I now direct my prayer-- O God of love, forsake me not! Grant that my waywardness may ne'er Quench the returning Better Thought!
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End of Project Gutenberg's Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 460, by Various