And when the fiercer storms of fate
Do o'er the pilgrim sweep,
And earthquake-voices claim the hopes
He treasur'd long and deep,
When loud the threatening passions roar
Like lions in their den
And vengeful tempests lash the shore,
What maketh music then?
The deed to humble virtue born,
Which nursing memory taught
To shun a boastful world's applause,
And love the lowly thought,
This builds a cell within the heart,
Amid the weeds of care,
And tuning high its heaven-struck harp,
Doth make sweet music there.
FORBEARANCE WITH FRAILTY.
Scorn not the sinner, though her name
May dregs of deep abhorrence stir,
And though the kindling blush of shame
Burns on young Virtue's cheek for her.
Judge not, unless thy lip can tell
What wily tempters, fierce and strong
Did the unguarded soul propel
To ruin's hidden gulf along.
