LXVI. The weeping Seed-Time, and joyful Harvest.

THE dark'ned Sky! how thick it lowrs!
Troubled with Storms, and big with Show'rs;
No chearful Gleam of Light appears,
But Nature pours forth all her Tears.

Yet let the Sons of Grace revive;
GOD bids the Soul, that seeks him, live,
And from the gloomiest Shade of Night
Calls forth a Morning of Delight.

The Seeds of Extacy unknown
Are in these water'd Furrows sown;
See the green Blades how thick they rise,
And with fresh Verdure bless our Eyes.

In secret Foldings they contain
Unnumber'd Ears of golden Grain;
And Heav'n shall pour its Beams around,
Till the ripe Harvest load the Ground.

Then shall the trembling Mourner come,
And find his Sheaves, and bear them home:
The Voice long broke with Sighs shall sing,
Till Heav'n with Hallelujahs ring.