Yet, in the twilight valley cast
'Twixt heaven to come, and heaven that's past,
There is a voice so small and low,
The maniac ear of boisterous woe
Arrests it not — yet there 'tis known
When pain is left by passion gone.
'Tis hope; — though rather dark despair
Than any hope seem dwelling there;
'Tis hope — disguised like light that springs
From watchful knowledge of past things;
Proving from changes that have been,
From pleasure, good, and triumph seen,
That still some happier time shall be;
That still our eyes shall gladness see.
Oh! let not then thy tortur'd sense
Dwell in delirium on the past,
Firmly on heaven thy wishes cast,
And draw down power and solace thence.
And while thy thoughtful head is laid
Upon the bosom of that maid,
Who, in affliction's ordeal flame,
Has found love's pure celestial glow;
Whilst round thee thou canst spirits name,
Whose worth the ear can never know —
Think! for it cannot be forgot
There was a day thou knew'st them not —
Think! how life's blessings sometimes crowd,
Like angels from a hovering cloud.