There are, who darkling and alone,
  Would wish the weary night were gone,
  Though dawning morn should only show
  The secret of their unknown woe:
  Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain
  To ease them of doubt's galling chain:
  "Only disperse the cloud," they cry,
"And if our fate be death, give light and let us die."

  Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeet
  To profit by Thy chastenings sweet,
  For Thou wouldst have us linger still
  Upon the verge of good or ill.
  That on Thy guiding hand unseen
  Our undivided hearts may lean,
  And this our frail and foundering bark
Glide in the narrow wake of Thy beloved ark.

  'Tis so in war—the champion true
  Loves victory more when dim in view
  He sees her glories gild afar
  The dusky edge of stubborn war,
  Than if the untrodden bloodless field
  The harvest of her laurels yield;
  Let not my bark in calm abide,
But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.

  'Tis so in love—the faithful heart
  From her dim vision would not part,
  When first to her fond gaze is given
  That purest spot in Fancy's heaven,
  For all the gorgeous sky beside,
  Though pledged her own and sure to abide:
  Dearer than every past noon-day
That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.

  So have I seen some tender flower
  Prized above all the vernal bower,
  Sheltered beneath the coolest shade,
  Embosomed in the greenest glade,