We stand by a sunlit river,
Where wavelets, wild and free,
Flashing and glittering ever,
Rush onward to the sea;
O’er its bosom, brightly gleaming,
A golden halo glows,
As, in argent splendor dreaming,
Its current onward flows;
There the golden sunlight pillows,
And music ever wells,—
But beneath those tossing billows
Oft an undercurrent swells.
Still the tide flows onward gladly,
With music soft and low,
And we know not, oh, how sadly,
The waters moan below!
There the cruel rocks are rigid,
And wrapt in sable gloom;
And the cold, dark depths are frigid
As an icebound wintry tomb;
Yet the soul is lured to gladness,
As the billows rise and flow,—
But the current’s mournful sadness
No heart may ever know.
Life’s stream thus, ever rapid,
Flows onward merrily;
Though its glory may be vapid,
No sorrow do we see;
And a smile may gild a feature,
As the billows onward roll
O’er the rugged rocks of nature
Deep in the human soul,
Ah! the smile speaks naught of sorrow,
Though with sadness it may vie,—
But no solace can we borrow
From the mockery of a sigh.
Oh! who would wish to treasure
Aught of life’s tinsel show,
When, with every draught of pleasure,
Is drained the dregs of woe!
Yet every sigh of sadness,
And every pang of pain,
Is thrilled with a sense of gladness,
We cannot quite explain,—
But deep where the waters darkle,
And surges ever moan,
True pearls of splendor sparkle
That may deck a kingly crown.