The storm is hush’d, the winds are still,
A balmy fragrance fills the air;
Nor sound is heard, save some clear rill
Meandering thro’ the vallies fair.
Those vernal show’rs that from on high
Descend, make earth more fresh and green;
Those clouds that darken all the air
Disperse, and leave it more serene
And those soft tears that for awhile
Down sorrow’s faded cheek may roll,
Shall sparkle thro’ a radiant smile,
And speak the sunshine of the soul!
While yet thy mind is young and pure,
This sacred truth, this precept learn—
That He who bids thee all endure,
Bids sorrow fly, and hope return.
His chast’ning hand will never break
The heart that trusts in Him alone;
He never, never will forsake
The meanest suppliant at his throne.
The world, that with unfeeling pride
Sees vice to virtue oft preferr’d,
From thee, alas! may turn aside—
O, shun the fawning, flatt’ring herd!
And while th’ Eternal gives thee health
With joy thy daily course to run,
Let wretches hoard their useless wealth,
And Heav’n’s mysterious will be done.
With fair Religion, woo content,
’Twill bid tempestuous passions cease;
And know, my child, the life that’s spent
In pray’r and praise, must end in peace.
The dream of Life is quickly past,
A little while we linger here;
And tho’ the Morn be overcast,
The Ev’ning may be bright and clear.
D. G.