Which ever throws its purest light upon the stormiest way;
Which sweetly gilds the darkest sky and comes like angel voice,
(E’en ’mid the wreck of dearest hopes), to bid the heart rejoice;
Which flings a smile on sorrow’s brow, and sunshine on the tomb,
And scatters o’er the bed of death bright buds of deathless bloom.
’Tis true the parting hour will come, “the loved” it cannot save;
But it can teach us with a smile to yield them to the grave;
To watch with chastened sober bliss the spirit’s calm release,
Trusting, though life have storms for us, all with the dead is peace.
And even while the bosom aches, aches to its inmost core,