“The harp of the heart,” by affliction unstrung,
Can only reply in the numbers of sadness,
Or, silent with grief, on the willows is hung.
Great Parent of Nature! if to the bleak mountains,
The light of thy smile bringeth verdure again;
Doth gladden the desert with palm trees and fountains,
And scatter new beauties o’er valley and plain;
If the wealth of thy bounty, in showers descending,
Can make “the waste-places” bloom fresh as the rose;
And thy rainbow of promise, in loveliness bending