TO THE CRUCIFIED.[77]

See how fond science, with unwearied gaze, Eyes on the sun's bright disk each fiery vent, And from his flaming crown each ray up-sent Searches, as miners, in their furnace-blaze— Seek trace of gold. But who to thee doth raise His eyes the while? Who, with true heart intent, Scans thy sharp crown, thy bosom's yawning rent, And peers into its depths with love's amaze? Let me, at least, come near the abysmal side, And reach out to the heart which throbs within. I am oppressed with woe and shame and sin; Oh! suffer me within that cleft to hide! There glows the fire which purifies each stain; There burns the love which bids me live again.