2 * 2(5 
Ah ! little do they know, even when he weeps, 
How much of peace blends with his very tears, 
Healing as dew, whose balmy nectar steeps 
The sun-smit flower: while Hope, sweet Hope ! appears, 
An iris on the cloud, and smiles away his fears. 
Silence and Darkness ! soon the hour will come 
When all must brave ye, for that all must die: 
The night of death, the silence of the tomb ! 
These are realities which none may fly. 
Thrice happy they who, when that hour is nigh, 
Do feel their faith secure, their sins forgiven: 
Soon ’twill be past; and then to ear and eye 
What sounds, what sights of rapture shall be given ! 
For darkness, endless day! — for silence, songs ot 
Heaven ! 
