Does not the morn break thus, Swift, bright, victorious, With new skies cleared for us, Over the soul storm-tost? Her night was long and deep, Strange visions vexed her sleep, Strange sorrows bade her weep: Her faith in dawn was lost. No halt, no rest for her, The immortal wanderer From sphere to higher sphere, Toward the pure source of day. The new light shames her fears, Her faithlessness, her tears, As the new sun appears To light her godlike way. SAINT ROMUALDO. I give God thanks that I, a lean old man, Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains By austere penance and continuous toil, Now rest in spirit, and possess "the peace Which passeth understanding." Th' end draws nigh, Though the beginning is yesterday, And a broad lifetime spreads 'twixt this and that-- A favored life, though outwardly the butt Of ignominy, malice, and affront, Yet lighted from within by the clear star Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged To see at last its utmost goal attained. I speak not of mine Order and my House, Here founded by my hands and filled with saints-- A white society of snowy souls, Swayed by my voice, by mine example led; For this is but the natural harvest reaped From labors such as mine when blessed by God. Though I rejoice to think my spirit still Will work my purposes, through worthy hands, After my bones are shriveled into dust, Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit Of holy satisfaction, sure and real, Though subtler than the tissue of the air-- The power completely to detach the soul From her companion through this life, the flesh; So that in blessed privacy of peace, Communing with high angels, she can hold, Serenely rapt, her solitary course.