Bleak win­ter is sub­dued at length,
And forced to yield the day;
The sun has wast­ed all his strength,
And driv­en him away.

And now long wished for spring is come,
How al­tered is the scene!
The trees and shrubs are dressed in bloom,
The earth ar­rayed in green.

Where’er we tread, be­neath our feet
The clus­ter­ing flow­ers spring;
The art­less birds, in con­cert sweet,
Invite our hearts to sing.

But ah! in vain I strive to join
Oppressed with sin and doubt;
I feel ’tis win­ter still, with­in,
Tho’ all is spring with­out.

Oh! would my Sav­ior from on high,
Break thro’ these clouds and shine!
No crea­ture, then, more blest than I,
No song more loud than mine.

Till then—no soft­ly warb­ling thrush,
Nor cow­slip’s sweet per­fume;
Nor beau­ties of each paint­ed bush,
Can dis­si­pate my gloom.

To Ad­am, soon as he trans­gressed,
Thus Ed­en bloomed in vain;
Not pa­ra­dise could give him rest,
Or soothe his heart­felt pain.

Yet here an em­blem I per­ceive
Of what the Lord can do;
Dear Sav­ior, help me to be­lieve
That I may flour­ish, too.

Thy word can soon my hopes re­vive,
Can ov­er­come my foes;
And make my lang­uid grac­es thrive,
And blos­som like the rose.