IN this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit,
How seldom art thou found — Tranquillity!
Unless 'tis when with mild and downcast eye,
By the low cradles, thou delight'st to sit,
Of sleeping infants — watching the soft breath,
And bidding the sweet slumb'rers easy lie;
Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death,
Where the poor languid suff'rer — hopes to die.
Oh! beauteous sister of the halcyon Peace!
I sure shall find thee in that heav'nly scene
Where Care and Anguish shall their pow'r regin;
Where Hope alike, and vain Regret shall cease;
And Memory — lost in happiness serene,
Repeat no more — that misery has been mine!