Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/167

134 Nothing of this deceiving earth, Nor bonds, nor laws, nor griefs remain; The soul receives a second birth And feels no more Imposture's pain.

Like a celestial butterfly, Its own flower it can blameless choose, It reasserts its nature high, And shakes off exile's slime and ooze.

O Night—the sombre and the bright! In thee I find all, all in sooth, For thou unitest gloom with light, And weddest Mystery with Truth.

But peace! The cold winds whistle clear, The east reveals a streak of grey, Adieu—adieu, O thoughts sincere, And welcome lies. Here comes the day!