(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Oh say not the wide world is lonely and dreary!
Oh say not that life is a wilderness waste!
There's ever some comfort in store for the weary,
And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast.

There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er the soul,
Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear,
That when waking the dew-drops of mem'ry may fall,
And blot out for ever, the wide world is drear.

There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief,
Which will beam o'er his pathway of danger and fear;
There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm 'joy of grief,'
Oh then say not the wide world is lonely and drear!

There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the breast,
Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear,
Which return on the heart, and there lingering rest,
Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear.

'T is true, that the dreams of the evening will fade,
When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and clear;
Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade,
And say that the world is not lonely and drear.

Oh then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste!
That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear,
But remember that man, undeserving, is blest,
And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear.