As when the Paschal week is o'er, Sleeps in the silent aisles no more The breath of sacred song, But by the rising Saviour's light Awakened soars in airy flight, Or deepening rolls along; The while round altar, niche, and shrine, The funeral evergreens entwine, And a dark brilliance cast, The brighter for their hues of gloom, Tokens of Him, who through the tomb Into high glory passed: Such were the lights and such the strains. When proudly streamed o'er ocean plains Our own returning Cross; For with that triumph seemed to float Far on the breeze one dirge-like note Of orphanhood and loss. Father and King, oh where art thou? A greener wreath adorns thy brow, And clearer rays surround; O, for one hour of prayer like thine, To plead before th' all-ruling shrine For Britain lost and found! And he, whose mild persuasive voice Taught us in trials to rejoice, Most like a faithful dove, That by some ruined homestead builds, And pours to the forsaken fields His wonted lay of love: Why comes he not to bear his part, To lift and guide th' exulting heart? - A hand that cannot spars Lies heavy on his gentle breast: We wish him health; he sighs for rest, And Heaven accepts the prayer. Yes, go in peace, dear placid spright, Ill spared; but would we store aright Thy serious sweet farewell, We need not grudge thee to the skies, Sure after thee in time to rise, With thee for ever dwell. Till then, whene'er with duteous hand, Year after year, my native Land Her royal offering brings, Upon the Altar lays the Crown, And spreads her robes of old renown Before the King of kings. Be some kind spirit, likest thine, Ever at hand, with airs divine The wandering heart to seize; Whispering, "How long hast thou to live, That thou should'st Hope or Fancy gave To flowers or crowns like these?"