There are plenty of sorrows to chill us,
And troubles last on to the grave;
But the coldest glacier has its rose-tint,
And froth rides the stormiest wave.
Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,
With plumage as bright as before;
And pleasures like lamps in a palace,
If extinct, you need only light more.
When one vein of silver's exhausted,
'Tis easy another to try;
There are fountains enough in the desert,
Though that by your palm-tree be dry:
When an India of gems is around you,
Why ask for the one you have not?
Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,
Be contented with what you have got.
Come to-night, for the white blossomed myrtle
Is flinging its love-sighs around;
And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties,
The violets peep from the ground.
Seek ye for gold and for silver,
There are both on these bright orange-trees;
And never in Persia the moonlight
Wept o'er roses more blushing than these.
