When nature oft would fain rebel,
Yet bends beneath the rending dart,
And tears her deepest anguish tell.
Tears are the heir-loom of our race,
From sire to son profusely given;
Bright dew-drops on the mourner’s face,—
Bright only in the light of Heaven.
In that pure light the mother sees
Through her fast tears the cloud grow bright;
Hope gilded with sweet promises,