Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm;
If storms arise, thy deep, rich, holy calm,
Comes with a spirit-influence to the breast,
And to the weary mourner whispers—rest!
Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead!
Rest—for the longing spirit, heavenward fled!
Rest—from a tiresome path, in weakness trod!
Rest—in the bosom of the Savior, God!
Far in the west—the boundless, prairied west,
Where nature revels, in her beauty drest,