XXXI.

His work was done, and brightly sank
The day's last light upon his head;
The flowers that kindred beauty drank,
And all was peace around the dead.

XXXII.

And while by day the man had wrought,
And while by night awake he lay,
He felt within a flow of thought
Serene, that led him still to pray.

XXXIII.

Before him now his daughter came
In all her truth, as if alive;
Now child, now woman, still the same,
And made his purest heart revive.

XXXIV.

He thought how after Henry died
She strove and toiled with earnest will,
To each small task her heart applied,
Though Death within was strengthening still:

XXXV.

How week on week; 'mid humble calm,
And zealous heed that would not sleep,
She found her suffering's holiest balm
In suffering's lowest silent deep.

XXXVI.

And so she wore away. The night
In which she went to Henry's home
Had seized her all with chilly blight,
And warmth again would never come.

XXXVII.

She laid her down, but not to rest,
For feverish dreams besieged her bed;
And, with too many thoughts oppressed,
It seemed that thought itself was fled.

XXXVIII.

But now with steadfast voice and eye
She met her father's wandering gaze,
And told of visions bright and high—
Strange visions told in darkling phrase.

XXXIX.

Then swift she sank; she could not speak,
But lay a pale, unmoving clod,
At last she said, with utterance weak,
“Remembering me, remember God!”

XL.

The thought of this, of her, of all
That she to him had been before,
Began within his heart to call,
And open wide its inmost door.