The Ascension

And thou hast left, oh pastor saint,
Thy flock to wander in this vale obscure,
In solitude and plaint,
Whilst thou, most high and pure,
Dost cleave the air, immortal and secure.
And those who erst were happiest
Are full of sorrow, sadness, weeping sore;
Nurtured upon thy breast
Thy loss we now deplore —
Where shall they turn for comfort, where adore ?
What object now shall glad those eyes
That basked in sunshine of thy beauteous face?
What should they not despise
Who heard thy voice's grace?
All other sounds must leave an evil trace.

Since now thou'rt hidden from our view,
What hand shall rule the billowing ocean's might?
Who'll curb its rage anew
When storm-winds take their flight?
What compass guide the bark through starless night?
Ah, envious clouds that hence convey
Our earthly joy, of but a moment's span!
Whence speed they with such prey?
How rich they sail away, —
And what a poor, blind erring thing is man !