There is a friend, whose love
Is closer than a brother's,—
Tender, endearing,—'tis above
E'en fondness like a mother's:—
She may forget her suckling's cry,
His ear attends the feeblest sigh.
On Him thy panting breast,
By care and anguish riven,
Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest,
From other refuge driven:—
And earth, with all its joys and fears,
Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.
Morn's dew-enamell'd flowers,
The cloud through azure sweeping,
Their brightness owe to sadder hours,
Their calm, to storms and weeping.—
That Friend shall thus each tear illume,
To forms of glory shape that gloom.
Eve's sapphire cloud hath been
Dark as the brow of sorrow;
Those dew pearls wreath'd in emerald green,
Once wept a coming morrow:—
But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,
And all was light and ecstacy.
Yon star upon the brow
Of night's grey coronet,
Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,
Had yon bright sun ne'er set,
Were hidden still from mortal sight,
Lost in impenetrable light.
Then should afflictions come,
Dark as the shroud of even,
A thousand glories glitter from
The burning arch of heaven!
Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,
New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.
And who that azure hung
With lamps of living fire?
Who, when the hosts of morning sung,
First listen'd to their quire?
The Man of Sorrows mercy sent,—
In heav'n the GOD!—the Omnipotent!