Religion

hen Misery’s tear and Sorrow’s sighOppress the feeling mind,Say—where for refuge shall we fly?And where a refuge find?

The morn of life may open fair,And charm the view awhile;The world around us then may wearA universal smile;

But Life’s a transitory scene,Its prospects all are vain;The bosom that now beats serene,Too soon may throb with pain.

Though Pleasure Youth’s gay hours adorn,The wayward heart to please,’Tis fleeting as the dew of morn,’Tis fickle as the breeze.

Uncertain is our mortal breath,On swiftest wings it flies;

And soon the iron hand of deathShall close our dying eyes.

Such is our state—then, tell me, where,Oppressed with care and grief,The anxious bosom can repair,To seek and find relief?

To mild Religion—heavenly maid!Belongs the power alone,To dissipate the deepest shade,That shrouds the dark unknown.

She gives the glad inquiring mindThis solemn truth to know:“The soul of man is not confinedTo this short space below.”

Then cherish well the hopes she gives,To banish all our fears:“The disembodied spirit livesBeyond the vale of tears.

“Though want, contempt, and scorn, attendThe virtuous here below,Their future bliss shall far transcendTheir present pain and woe.

“In realms of everlasting rest,Where cares and sorrows cease,The sainted spirits of the blestShall find eternal peace.”

Then be to Heaven’s will resigned,And own Religion’s power,For there a sure resource we find,In sorrow’s darkest hour.