The Night had closed her eye of softest blue, And, like a wearied infant, sank to rest On Nature’s gentle bosom—Silence, pale, With a white finger on her marble lip, From which no lightest whisper ever came, Was bending o’er the dim and murmured death Of every sound—and even Echo dreamed, As though a spirit’s wand had charmed her there To slumber deep as that Creation held When Night was in the heavens! Still as the moonlight quivered through the vines That overhung the casement, it revealed The rosy couch, beneath its silvery veil, As by its side the maiden knelt to pray. Oh! if there be on earth one blessing left— One leaf from out our faded Paradise— One ray of glory from the heaven we lost— It is, that we may pray for those we love! Without it _man_ may live—his nature knows No soft dependence—panoplied in self, His haughty heart may burn to dash aside The hand that formed it—and he may defy The love that made him what he is—a god! But _woman_ never—for her ivy soul Must have an oak to cling to; proud and high Its crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed, It matters not—and for it she must pray! Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity, To calm the sorrow that with lava streams, Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul, And when she feels it crushing darkly through A bosom all too soft to stem its tide Of bitter, burning waters—then, for power To “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays. And oh! when human love has taught her heart To dream of _one_ and _Heaven_, how pants her soul To pour that gushing feeling freely forth, In all its truth and deep intensity, before The “God of love” who gave it! ’Twas for this The gentle maiden meekly knelt to God Till each pure love-beam from her violet eye Seemed melting into passion’s orison. Warm feeling folded up its starry plumes To bow before the altar-shrine of faith, And holy hopes looked from the golden shades That lay upon her soul, as angels bend O’er the bright foldings of the summer clouds, To woo us to the sky, from whence they come. Her eye grew dreamy, and her bosom heaved, As though within its cell some pleasant thought Were singing, and it rose and fell upon The waves of that delicious melody. Her loosened hair swept o’er the sacred page, And, as her soul went forth in whispers low, It stirred the shadows with the breath of prayer. She oped the holy book, and as her lip Trembled upon the words, they sank within