Classic Poem

Thy heart is sad — corroding care,
Hath wrought its sternest workings there,
As songs that die along the shore,
Thy brightest joys are now no more;
Yet, stricken one, retire awhile,
From Earth's dark scenes of grief and guile,
And at the hour when sunlight's glow,
Is fading from the world below,
Then bend Devotion's willing knee,
And Peace, sweet Peace, will visit thee.

The hour of Prayer — how pure — how calm,
It brings the Pilgrim spirit-balm,
The balm which mollifies his woe,
Arrests the tear-drop in its flow,
And bends above the battling storm,
The Rainbow's bright and lustrous form;
Hope leaps exulting in the hour,
When sense and sin forego their power,
And while such precious moments last,
We have, of Heaven, the antepast.

Yes, take the form so dear of old,
In which thy Father's wants were told,
The hallow'd words which martyrs breath'd,
The legacy which Saints bequeath'd,
And breathe thy longings in an Ear,
Which stoops thy least complaint to hear;
Thus, at the hour when sunlight's glow
Is fading from the world below,
If bow'd upon Devotion's knee,
Sweet Peace will gently visit thee.