The brightest gleam that summer sees

Is not the source of nature's gladness: But rain, that drops on grass and trees,The emblem of a spirit's sadness,—

"Tis this which makes the vallies sing; With herbage fresh the fields adorning: So heaviness, which night may bring,

Shall usher in the joy of morning. But various are the springs of woe;

We mourn for sin, we mourn for loss:

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Nor ever swerved since time began:

But sinners broke

His easy yoke;

And pride was never made for man.

Blessed are they that mourn aright!

Whose tears for sin are like a river: Their God shall make the darkness light,

And give them cheerfulness for ever.

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Thy milder noon

On weary traveller's path to shed.

Old ocean, swell

With pride, to tell

The wealth that o'er thy bosom glides:

And thou, wave on,

Great Lebanon,

The cedars of thy goodly sides.

Ye all fulfill

Your Maker's will,

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Can cherished token ward the blow

That's levelled at a life so dear?

Do men in fight a thought bestow
On widow's or on orphan's tear?

Then, what can raise the downcast eye?

What charm can soothe the aching heart? Hope of that home beyond the sky,

Where friends who meet shall never part. 80

Man is not born to flutter fair,

As butterflies in summer air:

As that leviathan, to play

In pastime through the watery way:
As opening flowers, the shade to shun,
And spread their beauties to the sun.
Each fly and fish and flower we see,
A warning is 'gainst vanity.

Yet there are pleasures, pure and holy,
Which even the mourner may allure,
And chase away his melancholy,

Or lessen, if they cannot cure.

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