Page:Poems Cook.djvu/101

Though the eye may be dimm'd with its grief-drop awhile,
 And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear;
Yet pensive indeed is that face where the smile
 Is not oftener seen than the tear.

There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around;
 There are spots where the poison-shrub grows;
Yet are there not hours when naught else can be found
 But the south wind, the sunshine and rose?

O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours,
 And strange is the path that we take;
If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers,
 To soften the thorn and the brake!

The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife,
 The soul's harmony often may mar;
But I think we must own, in the discords of life,
 'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar.

Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom;
 And the voice of the grateful will tell,
That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb,
 Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well.

Should fate do its worst, and my spirit, oppress'd,
 O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine;
Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast,
 And some pleasure must kindle in mine.

Then say not the world is a desert of thrall,—
 There is bloom, there is light on the waste;
Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
 There are honey-drops too for the taste.

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