Scarce had his trembling fingers raised
The tablets, felt for long in vain,
When lo ! the hand that touched the pen
With sudden brightness blazed !
The glory filled the narrow cell,
And, ever as the monk would write,
Still from his hand the heavenly light
Full on the parchment fell !
And thou — hath darkness quenched thy day ?
Is Fortune's tempest wild without ?
Within, the dreadful night of doubt ?
In what thou canst, obey !
"Rise ! walk !" he saith ; what though thy track
A horror of great darkness hides !
First rise, obedient, as he bids,
And light thou shalt not lack !