Heaven's fairest child, her radiant bow
Hangs trembling on the rising storm,
Is the coming hour replete with woe ?
Let fancy's rays disguise its form.
It is not wise to mourn to day,
To-morrow, or for yesterday.
Wisely enjoy the passing hour,
And heed not now the clouds which low'p-
For they may pass and not descend,
Or falling, but refreshment bring ;
Or on their flight there may attend
Some hope, their harshness softening.
To us concealed the future lies,
Why fill the blank with shadowy grief?
Live now—for to the good, the wise,
Each sorrow brings its own relief.
Rather let radiant fancy throw
A robe of beams of fairest form,
Around the future—like the bow
Hung trembling on the rising storm.*