The eye that watches o'er wild Ocean's dead,
  Each in his coral cave,
Fondly as if the green turf wrapt his head
  Fast by his father's grave, -
One moment, and the seeds of life shall spring
  Out of the waste abyss,
And happy warriors triumph with their King
  In worlds without a sea, unchanging orbs of bliss.

Beneath the burning eastern sky
  The Cross was raised at morn:
The widowed Church to weep stood by,
  The world, to hate and scorn.

Now, journeying westward, evermore
  We know the lonely Spouse
By the dear mark her Saviour bore
  Traced on her patient brows.

At Rome she wears it, as of old
  Upon th' accursed hill:
By monarchs clad in gems and gold,
  She goes a mourner still.

She mourns that tender hearts should bend
  Before a meaner shrine,
And upon Saint or Angel spend
  The love that should be thine.

By day and night her sorrows fall
  Where miscreant hands and rude
Have stained her pure ethereal pall
  With many a martyr's blood.

And yearns not her parental heart,
  To hear THEIR secret sighs,
Upon whose doubting way apart
  Bewildering shadows rise?

Who to her side in peace would cling,
  But fear to wake, and find