It is not wide,__
That current, death, that sweeps along,
So deep and dark, so swift and strong;
She hears the boatman cross its tide;
Safe, safe with Him, no more alone,
Oh! joy supreme, sweet rest and home__
Aye, 't is not wide!
SPRING is sweet coquette__
With smiles ,and melting tenderness she comes
To storm, with bud and blossom, all your heart;
'T is useless to resist, or try escape.
The woodland fastness is her citadel,
Where every winged songster pleads her cause.
Nor yet shall you avoid her in the field.
For, kneeling at your feet, she'll clasp your hand,
And, with the other, point to summer's golden prime,
And make rash promises of what the future holds.
Experience may tell you to beware -
To trust not her seductive Promises,
To look not on her as she smiles or weeps;
Yet ere you are aware, within your heart
She breaks the winter up,__and you are won.
Then, laughing at your weakness, she is gone
To try her countless arts in other climes.