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He rose, he triumph'd! he will yet sustain Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice! Aided by Him, though none the bed attend, Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart!

And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft Of that high hope, to misery what were left? But for the vision of the days to be, But for the comforter, despised by thee. Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, When o'er our heads the desolating blast, Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd, And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey, Hath call'd our fairest and our best away? Should we not madden when our eyes behold All that we loved in marble stillness cold, No more responsive to our smile or sigh, Fix'd—frozen—silent—all mortality? But for the promise, all shall yet be well, Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel, Beneath such clouds as darken'd, when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land;