Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/147



OH, lift thy thought above the gathering gloom, Above the falling friend, the senseless clod, Above the knell, the shadow, and the tomb, And let thy sad glance seek the orphan's God.

He, when the rains descend, and surges roll, Bounds the rough billows with his mighty span, He breaks the tempest, calms the troubled soul, Stills the wild storm, and heals the heart of man.

He rules the pride of elemental strife, He bids the tumults of the nations cease, And from the troubles, and the storms of life, Spreads forth the white wing of the angel—peace.

What though our hopes forsake this barren ground, What though our branch of earthly trust be riven, And frail as dew our mortal joys be found, We still may hope for bliss at last in Heaven.