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Updated: May 16, 2025
* Her voice is hovering o'er my soul it lingers, O'ershadowing it with soft and thrilling wings; The blood and life within those snowy fingers Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick. The blood is listening in my frame; And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Fall on my overflowing eyes.
Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest, Dark rocks its crystal source o'ershadowing." The tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, as will be recollected, after being overtaken by Edward Walcott, was left with little apparent prospect of aiding in the deliverance of Ellen Langton.
"Not a sound But, echoing in me, Vibrates all around With a blind delight, Till it breaks on Thee, Queen of Night! Every tree, O'ershadowing with gloom, Seems to cover thee Secret, dark, love-still'd, In a holy room Silence-filled. "Let no moon Creep up the heaven to-night; I in darksome noon Walking hopefully, Seek my shrouded light Grope for thee! "Darker grow The borders of the dark!
"As in the dawning, o'er the waveless ocean, The image of the morning star doth rest; So in this stillness Thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast. "When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer; Sweet the repose, beneath Thy wings o'ershadowing, But sweeter still to wake, and find Thee there.
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