To see, before each glance of piercing thought,
All cloud, all shadow, blown remote; and leave 100
No mystery—but that of Love Divine,
Which lifts us on the seraph’s flaming wing,
From earth’s Aceldama, this field of blood,
Of inward anguish, and of outward ill,
From darkness, and from dust, to such a scene!
Love’s element! true joy’s illustrious home!
From earth’s sad contrast (now deplored) more fair!
What exquisite vicissitude of fate!