[Hope.]
When storms arise, and tumults jar,
And wreck this mortal form,
There is a bright, a lovely star,
That shines above the storm.
’Tis hope that buoys our spirits up,
Along the chequer’d way,
And when we drain the bitter cup
It points a brighter day.
Though all the ills of life stand by,
It proffers still to save;
And when the shades of death are nigh,
It looks beyond the grave.
[Autumn.]
How sad the breath of autumn sighs,
With mourning and decay;
The woods are clothed in varying dyes,
Of funeral array.
Where beauty bloomed of late around,
On mountain top and vale,
Now wither’d foliage strews the ground,
And tells a piteous tale.
And summer birds are on the wing,
Bound for a warmer sky,
They greeted us in early spring—
They bid us now good bye.
So pass away our early years,
Youth sinks into decay,
And age, like autumn soon appears,
And quick we pass away.