Pure peaceful joy, and ever-healing springs.
Then may the solitary sing for joy;
For hours like these taste not of earth’s alloy;
Affliction’s fire the gold has purified,
And blest are they whose hopes may thus be tried.
O, God! while tears unbidden freely start,
Here would I lay my crush’d and bleeding heart;
I bless thee that thine own soft hands are here,
To staunch the wounds, and still each throbbing fear.
The human heart, sore wounded oft in vain,