Epigraph
’Tis beautiful to see the holy might
Of a strong spirit, dedicate to God,
’Tis beautiful to mark the uplifted light,
In vigorous hands pointing the heavenward road,
Continuing steadfast in the noble strife,
Through the world’s dimness shining strong and free;
But fairer still, ’mid quiet household life,
A calm sad chastened spirit praising Thee!
Thee! oh, our Father! from whose hands its thread
Of fate hath run in darkness. Grief’s wide veil
Mantling its youthful days—and o’er its head,
The weeping cloud of fear, while yet its pale
And gentle face is radiant with the faith,
That clings although thou smite, nor quits its hold with Death.