From “Sentinel Songs”
THE FALLEN cause still waits,—
  Its bard has not come yet,
His song—through one of to-morrow’s gates
  Shall shine—but never set.

But when he comes—he ’ll sweep
  A harp with tears all stringed,
And the very notes he strikes will weep,
  As they come, from his hand, woe-winged.

Ah! grand shall be...