A long, long scene, of mis’ry!
’Tis thou that art the wretch’s stay,
When ev’ry comfort droops away;
Thy friendly voice can bear him up,
Though doom’d to drink Woe’s bitt’rest cup.
When the sad Pilgrim, with worn feet,
Longs, yet despairs, his friends to greet;
’Tis then thy heav’nly soothing ray,
Renews his steps, and chears his way.
When the poor Mariner, at sea,