Paul Hamilton Hayne (Пол Гамильтон Хейн)
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ALONG the path thy bleeding feet have trod, O Christian Mother! do the martyr-years, Crownèd with suffering through the mist of tears Uplift their brows, thorn-circled, unto God; Most bitterly our Father's chastening rod Hath ruled within thy term of mortal days, Yet in thy soul spring up the tones of praise, Freely as flowers from out a burial-sod: Nor hath a tireless faith essayed in vain To win from sorrow that diviner rest, Which, like a sunset, purpling through the rain Of dying storms, maketh the darkness blest; Grief is transfigured, and dethronèd Fears, Pale in the glory beckoning from the West.
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