And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,
That the meek heart is purified by pain,
And at length will rest on a palmy shore,
Where grief and suffering are no more.
In that sweet land from all sorrow free,
There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;
With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,
Immortal as first when God had made.
There shall the strains of thy music flow
In a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;