Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

God made thee good as thou art beautiful.