FOR THE ENQUIRER. THE CONVERT.
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The fitfal gleamings of wasted lamp Dance playfnIy around that kneeling forrn' As if in mOckery of woe; for woe, The bitter fruit of sin, ske tasteth there; Whilst on the stiffness of the midnight hour, In cadence tremulous with fear and griefS Are borne the breathings of soul, overwhelmed With conscious guilt. Conviction is at work Within that heart, 30 full, but yesterday, Of buoyant glee. That voice, which lately rung In cheerful music through the festive hall, Has nOw beggar's tone; and on that lip, Which proud disdain oft curled, suppiant's pr0ye Is trembling.