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Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart! He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy woes Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence Make thy soul's peace with God.

Till this day's task Be closed!—there is strange triumph in thine eyes— Is it that I have fallen from that high place Whereon I stood in fame?—But I can feel A wild and bitter pride in thus being past The power of thy dark glance!—My spirit now Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; Thy scorn hath lost its sting.—Thou mayst reproach—

I come not to reproach thee. Heaven doth work By many agencies; and in its hour There is no insect which the summer breeze From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires, Pent in earth's caves!—Thou hast but speeded that, Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart, Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties, But to avert one day!