STANZAS.
Some call the world a dreary place,
And tell long tales of sin and woe;
As if there were no blessed trace
Of sunshine to be found below.
And tell long tales of sin and woe;
As if there were no blessed trace
Of sunshine to be found below.
They point, when autumn winds are sighing,
To falling leaves and wither'd flowers;
But shall we only mourn them dying,
And never note their brilliant hours?
To falling leaves and wither'd flowers;
But shall we only mourn them dying,
And never note their brilliant hours?
They mark the rainbow's fading light,
And say it is the type of man;
"So passeth he"—but, oh! how bright
The transient glory of the span!
And say it is the type of man;
"So passeth he"—but, oh! how bright
The transient glory of the span!
They liken Life unto the stream
That, swift and shallow, pours along;
But beauty marks the rippling gleam,
And music fills the bubbling song.
That, swift and shallow, pours along;
But beauty marks the rippling gleam,
And music fills the bubbling song.
Why should the preacher ever rave
Of sorrow, death, and "dust to dust"?
We know that we shall fill a grave,—
But why be sad before we must?
Of sorrow, death, and "dust to dust"?
We know that we shall fill a grave,—
But why be sad before we must?
Look round the world and we shall see,
Despite the cynic's snarling groan,
Much to awaken thankful glee,
As well as wring the hopeless moan.
Despite the cynic's snarling groan,
Much to awaken thankful glee,
As well as wring the hopeless moan.
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