The clouds which there a tempest gave,
In shadow on our own land fell.
The pang my bosom rudely beat—
What if that fate our own had been?
What if or victory or defeat
Had wrapp’d us in its woe, and sin?
What if it still our fate should be?
And the safe hours, enjoy’d like this,
Amid our home-scenes safe and free,
Should be the passing year of bliss?