Hark! 'tis night.
The hour is borne distinctly by the wind.
My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side,
And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere,
She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays.
"O Father of all mercies, still be merciful,
And raise me from the gulf of this despair.
I cannot think nor feel my love is dead.
If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance,
Give me some sign that I may know the truth."