But had his happy hope chanc’d to alight
By the full river of thy thought’s sweet flow!
O then, my love, how couch’d had been his sight!
How had his mind been purged from all its woe!
Thy hand should only lead him to the hill,
That beckons daylight o’er its far blue waves;
Thy thought should but subdue his stubborn will;
Soon he were master of poor hope’s dim graves!
The presence of the God, that weaves the world,
Transfusing beauty till it higher grows;
The God of love, should still those storms that whirl’d
Such petty streamlets into deadlier flows:
But ah! the hand that only knows to mend,
How oft it fails unconscious whom to tend.