For soon the dangerous deep they dare;
This is the parting hour;
And lo! their burning eyeballs pour
A strange and plenteous shower;
And oh, may watching angels scan,
Beneath that troubled tide,
Some pearl of penitence to glow,
Where ransomed souls abide.
Oh beautiful! though not with youth,
Bright locks of sunny ray,
Or changeful charms that years may blot,
And sickness melt away;
But with sweet lowliness of soul,
The love that never dies,
The purity and truth that hold
Communion with the skies.
Oh beautiful! yet not with gauds,
That strike the worldling's eye,
But in the self-denying toils
Of heaven-born charity.
Press onward, till thou find thy home
In realms of perfect peace,
Where, in the plaudit of thy Lord,
All earthly cares shall cease.
Friday, March 5, 1841.
