Calls us, like thee, to His dear feet to cling,
  And bury in His wounds our earthly fears.

The Angels hear, and there is mirth in Heaven,
  Fit prelude of the joy, when spirits won
Like those to patient Faith, shall rise forgiven,
  And at their Saviour's knees thy bright example own.

As when the Paschal week is o'er,
Sleeps in the silent aisles no more
  The breath of sacred song,
But by the rising Saviour's light
Awakened soars in airy flight,
  Or deepening rolls along;

The while round altar, niche, and shrine,
The funeral evergreens entwine,
  And a dark brilliance cast,
The brighter for their hues of gloom,
Tokens of Him, who through the tomb
  Into high glory passed:

Such were the lights and such the strains.
When proudly streamed o'er ocean plains
  Our own returning Cross;
For with that triumph seemed to float
Far on the breeze one dirge-like note
  Of orphanhood and loss.

Father and King, oh where art thou?
A greener wreath adorns thy brow,
  And clearer rays surround;
O, for one hour of prayer like thine,
To plead before th' all-ruling shrine
  For Britain lost and found!

And he, whose mild persuasive voice
Taught us in trials to rejoice,
  Most like a faithful dove,