Of life, where breezy passion blows,
To whelm the adventurer in his pride.
Yes, for the smoothest lake hath waves
Within its bosom, which will rise
And revel when the tempest raves;
The cloud will come o'er gentlest skies;
And not a favored spot on earth,
The furrowing ploughman finds, but there
The rank and ready weeds have birth,
Sown by the winds to mock his care.