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Spirit of vengeance, that at midnight rang My mother's dying words within my brain,— Where are ye now? Hush'd as the worn-out wave! And in your stead do fear and sorrow come; Till, even as a child that dreads the dark, I dread the future. Bertha, thou hast struck, As with an angel's hand, my rocky heart, And call'd forth its pure waters: higher hopes, Gentle affections, thankfulness to God, And kindliness towards my fellow-men, Are gushing in my bosom's stony depths; And all subdued and chasten'd by a sense Of my unworthiness. No more I hold A blind and terrible fatality Is paramount upon this weary life— This gulf of troubled billows—where the soul,