MKS. I-IIY AT M:\VGATE PRISON. 311

And lo ! their burning eyeballs pour

A strange and copious shower; Say ! may not watchful angels scan

Amid these tides that rise, Some pearl of penitence, to wukr

The rapture of the skies ?

Oh beautiful ! though not with youth,

Bright locks of sunny ray, Or changeful charms that years may blot

And sickness melt away, But with sweet lowliness of soul,

The love that never dies, The purity and truth that hold

Communion with the skies :

Oh beautiful ! yet not with gauds,

That strike the worldling s eye, But in the self-denying toils

Of heaven-born charity, Press onward, to that genial home,

That realm of perfect peace, "Where, in the plaudit of thy Lord,

All earthly labors cease.

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