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Rh

Whose swoln and welt'ring billows rise no more To bear the tossed wreck back to the strand.

Oh, say not so! heav'n doth in its good time Send consolation to the sharpest woe. It still in kindness sends to the tried soul Its keenest suff'rings. So say holy men; And therein good men trust.

I hear, I hear thee! in mine ear thy voice Sounds like the feeble night-fly's humming noise To him, who in the warfare of vex'd sleep, Strives with the phantoms of his inward world. Yes, there be comfort when the sun is dark, And time hath run his course, and the still'd sleepers Lift up their heads at the tremendous crash Of breaking worlds.—I know all this.—But here, Upon this living earth, what is there found? It is a place of groans and hopeless woe. Let me then tear my hair and wring my hands, And raise my voice of anguish and despair, This is my portion now, all else is gone.

Nay, think not virtuous innocence forsaken: Put in high heav'n thy trust, it will sustain thee.

Ah! I did think when virtue bravely stood,