Tell me, ye wing­èd winds,
That round my path­way roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mor­tals weep no more?
Some lone and plea­sant dell,
Some vall­ey in the West,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The wea­ry soul may rest?
The loud wind dwin­dles
To a whis­per low,
And sighed for pi­ty
As it an­swered, No.

Tell me, thou migh­ty deep,
Whose bil­lows round me play,
Know’st thou some fa­vored spot,
Some is­land far away,
Where wea­ry man may find
The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sor­row ne­ver lives,
And friend­ship ne­ver dies?
The loud waves roll­ing
In per­pe­tu­al flow,
Stopped for a while,
And sighed to an­swer No.

And thou, se­ren­est moon,
That with such ho­ly face,
Dost look up­on the earth
Asleep in night’s em­brace;
Tell me, in all thy round,
Hast thou not seen some spot,
Where mi­se­ra­ble man
Might find a hap­pi­er lot?
Behind a cloud
The moon with­drew in woe,
And a voice sweet,
But sad, re­spond­ed, No.

Tell me, my sac­red soul,
Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no rest­ing place
From sor­row, sin and death?
Is there no hap­py spot
Where mor­tals may be blest,
Where grief may find a balm,
And wea­ri­ness a rest?
Faith, Hope, and Love,
Best boons to mor­tal giv­en,
Waved their bright wings,
And whis­pered, Yes, in Heav’n.