Should we not madden when our eyes behold
All that we loved in marble stillness cold,
No more responsive to our smile or sigh,
Fix’d—frozen—silent—all mortality?
But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,”
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel
Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land;
And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless,
Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness,