The hush of woe, or through the mists of death

The pardoning Angel—comes to earth the Sun.

Ice still on land—still vapour in the air,

But Light—the victor Lord—but Light is there!

On siege-worn cities, when their war is spent,

From the far hill as gleam on gleam, arise

The spears of some great aiding armament,

Grow the dim splendours, broadening up the skies;

Till, bright and brighter, the sublime array

Flings o’er the world the banners of the Day!