Never a dove came to nestle by me,
But green-eyed Envy was there to see—
Soiling its plumage of spotless white,
Making it vile as a raven of night.
Never a rose in my garden was born,
But was surrounded by many a thorn.
Never a sweet but was mingled with gall—
And freedom, forever, is shadowed by thrall;—
Fruit, that looked luscious while hanging in view,
Is blighted ere ripe, by a blistering dew;
Gold, that we gather and count as a joy,
Has little of pleasure and much of alloy;
Jealously burns, in her caustical fire,
My tenderest hope, with malevolent ire—
Ashes, of all, she has strewn in my path,
And mocks at my pain with demoniac laugh.
But hush thy complaining, my heart, and be still—
If Heaven, our measure, with blessings should fill,
How soon would the soul with satiety cloy,
And life would be robbed of delightsome employ,—
Incentive would sleep, and all motive would die,
If needs of our nature should utter no cry;
But lacking the goal our ambition would gain
Arouses our powers—gives strength to attain.
Our grandest achievements have birth in the throes
Of Penury’s labor; and multiplied woes
But nerve us to action—resist and endure,
And highest endeavor gives aid to secure
Success to the valiant in the struggle for right—
Though failure may sometimes descend like a blight—
Oft failure is blessing, that’s sent in disguise
To turn us from groveling to gaze on the skies.
Then learn through each trial, my soul, to rejoice,
And e’en from the cloud will Compassion’s own voice
Be heard thro’ the gloom, in response to your cry,
“Fear not the tempest, my child, it is I.”