With eyes all vaguely motionless,
Perhaps my wanderings view
The dead, with horror and distress,
As, roused up in their resting-place,
They look their dark walls through.

'T was not to muse I hither came
Of nothingness my part;
Nor of my God, but of a name,
That deep in characters of flame
Is written on my heart.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river's murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.