Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell,
And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell’d—
The agony of prayer—the bursting tears—
The dark remembrances of guilty years,
Crowding upon the spirit in their might?
He, through the storm who look’d, and there was light!
That scene is closed!—that wild, tumultuous breast,
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest!
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife,