When all the passion fill’d my breast—
When, trembling, with the storm I strove,
And pray’d, but vainly pray’d, for rest:
’Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife
For ease, for joy, for more than life: 30
’Twas every hour to groan and sigh
In grief, in fear, in jealousy.
I suffer’d much, but found at length
Composure in my wounded heart;
The mind attain’d its former strength,