Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess,
That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe,
High, holy joy remains. Death! death!—our foes,
Our most relentless foes, can only speed
Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not
Invented death for man; it would be then
Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven
’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs
With such blest comfort as no mortal power
Can give or take away. My wife! my child!