| |
| FOR eighteen years, she, patient soul | |
| Her eyes had graveward sent; | |
| All vain for her the starry pole, | |
| She is so bowed and bent. | |
| |
| What mighty words! who can be near? | 5 |
| What tenderness of hands! | |
| Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? | |
| New hope, or breaking bands? | |
| |
| The pent life rushes swift along | |
| Channels it used to know, | 10 |
| And up, amidst the wondering throng, | |
| She rises firm and slow— | |
| |
| To bend again in grateful awe— | |
| Will, power no more at strife— | |
| In homage to the living Law | 15 |
| Who gives her back her life. | |
| |
| Uplifter of the drooping head! | |
| Unbinder of the bound! | |
| Thou seest our sore-burdened | |
| Bend hopeless to the ground. | 20 |
| |
| What if they see thee not, nor cry— | |
| Thou watchest for the hour | |
| To raise the forward-beaming eye, | |
| To wake the slumbering power. | |
| |
| I see thee wipe the stains of time | 25 |
| From off the withered face; | |
| Lift up thy bowed old men, in prime | |
| Of youthful manhood’s grace. | |
| |
| Like summer days from winter’s tomb, | |
| Arise thy women fair; | 30 |
| Old age, a shadow, not a doom, | |
| Lo! is not anywhere. | |
| |
| All ills of life shall melt away | |
| As melts a cureless woe, | |
| When, by the dawning of the day | 35 |
| Surprised, the dream must go. | |
| |
| I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, | |
| Whate’er the needful cure; | |
| The great best only thou wilt do, | |
| And hoping I endure. | 40 |
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