my heart-aches with a suppliant air, I crave they grace a sickened soul to heal. 

Here, close beside this sacred font of gold, My humble prayer, oh, father, I will lay, With all its weight of misery untold; And wait impatient that which thou wilt say REVENITA. 

When to the font, this morn, my lips I pressed, A fairy's gift my fingers trembled o'er; A sweeter prayer ne'er smile of angel blessed, Nor gemmed a tiar that the priesthood wore. 

The secret of they grief I may not know, Since that thy lips refuse the tale to tell; Methinks, dear child, it was the sound of woe That woke an echo in my heart's deep well. 

The wail of a spirit that a-yearning gropes In darkness for the sunlight that is fled; A broken idol in secret wept, and hopes—   Crushed hopes—that are to thee as are the dead. 

A tender memory ling'ring yet of when Each bounding pulse beat faster with its joy; A something that allured, and won, and then With waking fled, and years may not destroy 

The impress which it left upon thy brain But seek thee, child, grief's ravaging to stay? Thy tears might fall as falls the show'ring rain, They could not wash the heart's deep scars away. 

Repine thee not; shroud not they faith in gloom; Shrink not to meet a disappointment's frown; Away beyond the narrow bordered tomb, Who here have borne the cross may wear the crown. SANSON. 

Whisper to him, fairies, whisper—   Whisper softly in his ear That some one is waiting, waiting, Listening his step to hear. 

Fairies, if he knew his presence Would a demon's spell allay, Would he heed your timid whisperings? Would he—will he come to-day? REVENITA. 

Fairies whisper, every whisper, In the silence of the night, And he catches the soft murmurs Floating in the starry light. 

And they tell him; yes, they tell him, All in accents sweet and clear, Of the beautiful Hereafter That is ever drawing near. 

There are loved ones, waiting, waiting, For his footfall on the shore; They will welcome his appearing—   They will greet him o'er and o'er. SANSON. 

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