The midnight storm, the tempest raging high,
The sweeping pestilence, and fell disease,
Rude winter’s blast, and balmy summer’s sigh,
Earth, and the sea whose murmurs never cease,
All are but agents of thy sovereign will,
Thy bidding to fulfil.
Couldst thou to man’s earth-fettered soul reveal
The bliss thou bringest to the pure in heart,
Would sudden horror o’er his spirit steal,
When called at last with low-born joys to part?