Though dark the tempest o'er thy head,
Not this the tempest thou shouldst dread—
Dread thou the storms which coming time
Must mingle with thine hour of prime—
The tempests of the heart, which none,
However they subdue, may shun.
The feverish hope, the vain desire,
Envy, repentance, grief, and ire,
The trust deceived, the faith betray'd,
The wrong that only Heaven can aid:
These wait for all, and these must be
A portion of thy life and thee.
Ah! when in after-years, if care
Or toil seem more than thou canst bear;
And sleepless night, and anxious day,
Wear life in heaviness away;
Think thou, amid thy weary lot,
How this storm pass'd and harm'd thee not:
The Hand that kept the wind-swept hill
And lonely moor is with thee still,
The same to save, the same to spare,
Let thy lip guard its early prayer.
Thy wrongs are register'd on high,
Thy tears a holy hope shall dry,
Thy toil meet harvest will return,
Thy grief is as the fires that burn
