‘234 
Oh ! pray that He whose hand has spread 
Thy path of bliss may guide thee ever, 
Pour His own dews upon thy head, 
And in “ all time of wealth deliver;” 
And like that tree which hastes to shower 
Its fragrance soon as morn has given 
Her liquid balm, oh ! ever pour 
The incense of thy soul to heaven ! 
Pilgrim of life ! if grief’s dim eve. 
Or deeper night be fallen upon thee, 
If youth be past — if friends deceive — 
Friends, who once fondly wooed and won thee; 
Oh ! hie thee, mourner, to the bower 
What time dim eve is duly flinging 
Her chilly dews on tree and flower, 
And mark the sweetness thence up-springing. 
Meekly to bow the willing head, 
E’en when the heart is blighted — riven; 
To trust, to praise, when light is fled,— 
This— this is incense meet for heaven ! 
