The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough:
Come to thy father! It is finish’d now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place.
Come, spirit! to thy God.
A FAREWELL TO WALES,
FOR THE MELODY CALLED “THE ASH GROVE,” ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.
The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear—