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Perhaps upon the troubled wave
Of life's tempestuous sea,
Some pensive mourner veils her brow,
As sad and mournfully.
While round the adverse tempests fly,
And clouds of sorrow roll,
And no kind voice is heard to sigh,
In mercy to the soul.
But where the bending concave seems
To meet the mountain fair,
I see a bright, unclouded sky,
And moon-beams quiver there.
And tho' the virtuous soul may sink,
With clouds and storms opprest,
It finds at last a peaceful cell,
Where all the weary rest.
REQUEST.
OH, may my future hours be given
To peace—to wisdom, and to heaven,
My hopes disdain a mortal birth,
