Henry Glassford Bell

Her neck is bared—the blow is struck—the soul has pass'd away; The bright—the beautiful—is now a bleeding piece of clay!— A solemn text! Go, think of it, in silence and alone, Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

I look'd far back into the past, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls.