Comfort to thy heart it bringeth,
Hope, whose very root seemed dead,
Into sudden freshness springeth !
Letters in his hand they phiced —
Letters, and his son doth send them !
Those clear lines so boldly traced,
Who but Melleff's self had penned them ?
'He was free, on Christian land,
Hurriedly was homeward pressing,
And should reach their island-strand
Ere the winter, with God's blessing !'
From that hour Wolfe standeth strong,
Cloudless peace his soul possesses ;
Though the waiting hath been long,
Not a doubt his heart distresses.
Day by day and week by week,
From the dawning until even,
Still he gazes, childly meek,
Seaward now, and now toward Heaven.