What heart but echoes back the shriek
Of nature from the tortured sky?
But hark! o'er all a whisper meek—
"Be of good cheer: 'tis I!"
Who here makes misery our mate?
Links love with death, and life with doom?
Sends fears e'en darker than our fate—
The shadows of the tomb?
The hand that smites is raised in love;
He seeks to save who bids us sigh: