Christian Patience

Poor Patience finds no rest, save where
Wild ocean to the storm lies bare:
She sits, with chattering teeth, alone —
Half-naked, on a cold rough stone,
O'er which the angry waters spring;
While tempest-clouds their mantles fling
O'er the faint stars, and leave no ray
Of sparkling light to cheer her way.
Or if a transient beam is brightening,
'Tis but the blasting fire of lightning,
When from the dark dense clouds the flash
Heralds the thunder's horrid crash.
Around her, from the troubled sand,
There bursts a monstrous flare-eyed band,
That hang upon the shaken cliff,
Like ghosts — but see a nearing skiff
Speed o'er the surge — Hope smiles again —
Her course is changed — that hope was vain.
Yet bore she seeming friends — even there;
Ah! cold unloving hearts they were:
One pitying cry was heard — "Lay to!"
Till startled at the threatening view
Of death, they shout — "Hold off!" nor brave
The dread memento of the grave!

And what is left? for torturing grief
What stay — what solace — what relief?
A taintless conscience — sole estate
The spirit owns when desolate.
A treasure suffering virtue bears,
Which gilds with smiles her deepest tears;
And, though no comfort hails her — none —
Still meekly says — "God's will be done!"