The field in which the weed and bramble thrive
Has some of good,
If but a single blossom struggling live
Amid the rude.
The ocean vast is not all desolate,
The worlds between,
If on its waters bearing human freight
One sail is seen.
All is not harsh and cold amid the wood,
If warbled song
Resound, how feebly, through the solitude
Of tangled wrong.
The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand
Does never spread,
If spear of grass in verdure green expand
Above the dead.
Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep
In sorrow sad;
The heart in which a little love may creep
Is not all bad.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song,
Where the hopes of the race were empearled,
Whenever a mortal does anything wrong,
It is only the way of the world!
If statesmen forget all the pledges they made,
And the people to evils are hurled,--
Excuse their misdeeds! 'Tis a trick of the trade,
And is only the way of the world!
If bankers, confusing distinctions of wealth,
Have your gold to their own pockets whirled,
And then gone to Europe for pleasure and health--
It is only the way of the world.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64