There is a light, tho’ secretly ’tis playing
Round the dark edges of those clouds we fear:
Some mission’d spirit, in our footsteps straying,
Whispering the words of comfort and of cheer.
Wilt thou not take the counsel kindly given?
Wilt thou not turn thy gaze from present gloom?
Dost thou not see, the power, in yonder Heaven,
That sends the blight, may likewise send the bloom?
Hope on, I pray thee—Hope on in thy sorrow—
Brush from thine eye the fastly falling tear;