The young, the old, the weak, the strong,
Even the poor widow of my rhyme
I miss not from the happy throng.
She gave her all to save the boy —
Should she not share the father's joy ?
Ah me ! the father ! who may know
His heart, or knowing, think to show !
Silent he stands, as in a dream,
Apart upon his chosen knoll,
Within his eye no kindling beam,
But patience strong within his soul.
On his pale features none can trace
The cheer that gladdens every face
Save his. Yet is it strange that years
Of blasted hopes and freezing fears
Should rob him of the power to feel
Assurance strong of coming weal ?
That one so long, so deeply sad
Forgets to smile, though he be glad ?