On the far world, seen brightest through our tears;
And, in that hour of triumph or despair,
Whose secrets all must learn—but none declare,
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence,
Have turn’d to Him whose bow is in the cloud,
Around life’s limits gathering as a shroud—
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose!
Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell