Never to blend our pleasure or our prideWith sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
Many are our joysIn youth, but oh! what happiness to liveWhen every hour brings palpable accessOf knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,And sorrow is not there!
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.