 | Poems |  |
95
THE STORM.
TO THE SAME.
'Tis night; the hail beats loud around,
And winds tumultuous sweep;
But not the tempest's mingled sound
Disturbs thy gentle sleep.
Sleep on, my love: His mighty arm,
By whom the blast is sped,
The fury of the blast can charm,
Or send his angel, and from harm
Protect the guiltless head.
And winds tumultuous sweep;
But not the tempest's mingled sound
Disturbs thy gentle sleep.
Sleep on, my love: His mighty arm,
By whom the blast is sped,
The fury of the blast can charm,
Or send his angel, and from harm
Protect the guiltless head.
'Tis for the wretch, whose hand the tears
Of injur'd orphans stain;
'Tis for the wretch, whose spirit dares
His Saviour's love profane;
O 'tis for him to feel dismay
And tremble at the storm,
Whose bosom like the troubled sea,
When far the peaceful halcyons flee,
The gusts of guilt deform.
Of injur'd orphans stain;
96
His Saviour's love profane;
O 'tis for him to feel dismay
And tremble at the storm,
Whose bosom like the troubled sea,
When far the peaceful halcyons flee,
The gusts of guilt deform.
Meanwhile tho' clouds around her break,
And winds around her howl,
They mar not virtue's constant cheek,
Nor shake her placid soul:
As some unruffled lake serene,
Ting'd by the purple even
And crown'd with hills and forests green,
Reflected in whose breast is seen
The loveliness of heaven.
And winds around her howl,
They mar not virtue's constant cheek,
Nor shake her placid soul:
As some unruffled lake serene,
Ting'd by the purple even
And crown'd with hills and forests green,
Reflected in whose breast is seen
The loveliness of heaven.
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