Comfort

O why, O why should I repine,
As if there were no griefs but mine,
No woes like these?
Since others have their cares—not few—
And others sing their dirges too
And elegies.
There's none whose bliss may not be broken,
There's none whose language has not spoken
Of sad distress:
No eyes that tears have never wet,
No heart above the influence set
Of bitterness.

Poor man! he deems it sweet to know,
When thistles round his path-way grow,
They grow for all;
That he, a pilgrim, only fares
As other pilgrims fare—and shares
Man's common call.
And thus, the universal lot
He bears—and bearing, murmurs not—
'Twere vain annoy;
But, with his fellow-travellers speeds
Over the plain, 'midst flowers and weeds,
In social joy.

Then yield not, yield not to despair,
But bid the bud of sorrow bear
A flower of peace;
For peace is virtue's favorite twin,
And grief is close allied to sin;
And changeless ease
Is not a child of earth: there's nought
But quiet courage, tranquil thought,
To smooth our path:
Pain will be there—'tis yours, 'tis mine,
'Tis all men's. Misery its decline
And rising hath.

Thus I subdue my stubborn will,
And though my grief were greater still,
Would patient bow.
Calmer and happier there are many,
And yet I would not change with any
My being now:
For I have learnt 'tis well! and spring
A joyous, renovated thing,
From grief and gloom.
'Tis well! I'll utter through the day
'Tis well! upon my bed I'll say,
Through time to come.

Friends! I have triumphed! I have found
Comfort—now pass the wine-glass round;
We'll pledge anew.
Among your social ranks I'll stand,
I'll grasp again each friendly hand,
And so do you!
If absence exile us—if I,
Divided, distant—need must sigh
O'er life's vexations,—
I'll think that every pain is light,
And every hour of darkness bright,
Save separation's.