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    Paused yet a little while below,
    Its beauty and its power to show.
    As if the tumult of this life,
    Its sorrow, vanity, and strife,
    Had been but as the lightning's shock
    Shedding rich ore upon the rock,
    Though in the trial scorch'd and riven,
    The gold it wins is gold from heaven.
    He watch'd, he soothed me day to day,
    How kindly words may never say:
    All angel ministering could be
    That old man's succour was to me;
    I dwelt with him; for all in vain
    He urged me to return again
    And mix with life:—and months past on
    Without a trace to mark them gone;