10 PREFACE. 



And yet, how blest am I ? 



While myriad others lie 



In agony of fever or of pain, 



With parching tongue and burning eye, 



Or fiercely throbbing brain ; 



My feeble frame, though spoiled of rest, 



Is not of comfort dispossest. 



My mind awake, looks up to thee, 



Father of mercy ! whose blest hand I see 



In all things acting for our good, 



Howe'er thy mercies be misunderstood. 



where the waning moon 

 Slowly surmounts yon dark tree tops, 

 Her light increases steadily, and soon 

 The solemn night her stole of darkness drops : 

 Thus to my sinking soul in hours of gloom, 

 The cheering beams of hope resplendent come, 

 Thus the thick clouds which sin and sorrow rear 

 Are changed to brightness, or swift disappear. 

 Hark ! that shrill note proclaims approaching day ; 

 The distant east is streaked with lines of gray ; 

 Faint warblings from the neighbouring groves arise, 

 The tuneful tribes salute the brightening skies. 

 Peace breathes around ; dim visions o'er me creep, 

 The weary night outwatched, thank God ! I too may 

 sleep. 



