Poems (Cook)/Stanzas (We are apt to grow a-weary in this troubled world at times)
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STANZAS.
We are apt to grow a-weary in this troubled world at times,
For even golden bells can ring in melancholy chimes!
And let our human lot in life be what or where it may,
Dark shadows often rise from which our hearts would turn away.
Full often do we sigh to taste some spirit-draught of joy,
And almost envy Childhood's laugh above its painted toy:
When some great hope breaks under us, or loved ones prove unjust:
And, roused from starry dreams, we find our pillow in the dust.
Say, whither shall we turn to seek the healing balm of rest,
And whence shall come the cheerful ray to re-illume our breast?
Oh let us go and breathe our woe in Nature's kindly ear,
For her soft hand will ever deign to wipe the mourner's tear;
She mocks not, though we tell our grief with voice all sad and faint
And seems the fondest while we pour our weak and lonely plaint.
Oh! let us take our sorrows to the bosom of the hills,
And blend our pensive murmurs with the gurgle of the rills;
Oh! let us turn in weariness toward the grassy way,
Where skylarks teach us how to praise, and ringdoves how to pray;
And there the melodies of Peace that float around the sod,
Shall bring back hope and harmony upon the voice of God!
For even golden bells can ring in melancholy chimes!
And let our human lot in life be what or where it may,
Dark shadows often rise from which our hearts would turn away.
Full often do we sigh to taste some spirit-draught of joy,
And almost envy Childhood's laugh above its painted toy:
When some great hope breaks under us, or loved ones prove unjust:
And, roused from starry dreams, we find our pillow in the dust.
Say, whither shall we turn to seek the healing balm of rest,
And whence shall come the cheerful ray to re-illume our breast?
Oh let us go and breathe our woe in Nature's kindly ear,
For her soft hand will ever deign to wipe the mourner's tear;
She mocks not, though we tell our grief with voice all sad and faint
And seems the fondest while we pour our weak and lonely plaint.
Oh! let us take our sorrows to the bosom of the hills,
And blend our pensive murmurs with the gurgle of the rills;
Oh! let us turn in weariness toward the grassy way,
Where skylarks teach us how to praise, and ringdoves how to pray;
And there the melodies of Peace that float around the sod,
Shall bring back hope and harmony upon the voice of God!