168 
the wounded in spirit, will love it best us tbe harbinger 
of peace. 
I would not, if I might. 
Child of my heart! the hidden page unseal, 
That would thy future destiny reveal. 
How should I shrink aghast 
To see fierce passions glass’d 
On that fair brow, which feels as yet no blight! 
Enough to know that often thou must stray, 
With sackcloth round thee spread, 
And ashes on thy head, 
A weeping pilgrim on life’s weary way. 
Oh ! rather let me pray, when bursts the cloud — 
When deep to deep is calling long and loud, 
That He, the heavenly Dove, 
With healing wing would move 
Upon these troubled waters of the soul, 
Hushing their turbulence with sweet controul; 
