Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/237

To thee still more unhappy! nor deters
Him ev'n the fear to touch the wounds unheal'd,
Yet bleeding sore, or see thee how it stirs
Fresh tears to bathe thine eyes thy sorrows yield.

What would he be, if man were not to weep?
A thousand times I've thanked our God, who gave
The heart to soothe its griefs in tears to steep;
As rain we see subdue the raging wave.

Weep then, ay, weep! others, and abler friends
As faithful, with success may in thine ears
Make heard the voice that stoic virtue lends;
But I, who in the world my cup of tears

Oft to the dregs have drain'd, no cure could find
For grief, but what from grief I might derive;
When with vain struggling tired, the powerless mind
Submissive ceased beneath the weight to strive.

Dear friend! wilt thou believe me? time will come,
When the sharp edge of sorrow worn away,
That grief and anguish now so burdensome,
At length a placid sadness will allay;

In which absorb'd, as yet o'erwhelm'd, the soul
Folds itself up all silently to bear;
Nor seeks nor envies, as around they roll,

The world's delights or pleasures more to share.