Which led them to the promis’d land.
My stately tree, and beauteous flower,
Shall never droop or wither more;
Transplanted to a genial clime,
They flourish in immortal prime.
“They are not lost—they’re gone before;”
My weary days shall soon be o’er,
When all that’s dark shall flee away
Before the dawn of heavenly day.
O, then, my soul! be thankful still,