Where every anguish mingled all its strength;
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,
And shadows deep around fell from th’ Eternal’s hand.
Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams
Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;
But what to thee the splendour of its beams?
The ice-rock glows not midst the summer’s pride!
Nations leap’d up to joy—as streams that burst,
At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,
And o’er the plains, whose verdure once thy nursed,