Classic Poem

Peace, troubled soul! whose plaintive moan,
Hath taught these rocks the note of woe;
Cease thy complaint, suppress thy groan,
And let thy tears forget to flow:
Behold! the precious balm is found,
Which lulls thy pain, which heals thy wound.

Come — freely come — by woe oppress'd,
Unburden here the weighty load;
Here find thy refuge, and thy rest,
Safe on the bosom of thy God.
Thy God's thy Savior! — glorious word;
That sheaths th' oppressor's glitt'ring sword.

As spring the winter, day the night,
Peace sorrow's gloom shall chase away;
And smiling joy — a seraph bright —
Shall tend thy steps, and near thee stay;
Whilst glory waves th' immortal crown,
And waits to claim thee for her own.