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With all the tumult and the stir of life,
Pursues its wonted course; on pleasure some,
And some on commerce and ambition bent,
And all on happiness; while each one loves
One little spot, in which his heart unfolds
With nature's holiest feelings,—one sweet spot,—
And calls it home. If there is sorrow there,
It runs through many bosoms, and a smile
Lights up in eyes around a kindred smile;
And if disease intrudes, the sufferer finds
Rest on the breast beloved. Outcast of all,
He sickens and he dies; and, having finished
The expiatory pangs, and drank his cup
Of mortal suffering, is denied a grave,
And this is mercy—this is human mercy!
O! truly did he read the heart's deep folds,
And the dark hues of its hypocrisy,
Who cried in bitterness, Alas! for man,
Whose tender mercies in themselves are cruel!
Pursues its wonted course; on pleasure some,
And some on commerce and ambition bent,
And all on happiness; while each one loves
One little spot, in which his heart unfolds
With nature's holiest feelings,—one sweet spot,—
And calls it home. If there is sorrow there,
It runs through many bosoms, and a smile
Lights up in eyes around a kindred smile;
And if disease intrudes, the sufferer finds
Rest on the breast beloved. Outcast of all,
He sickens and he dies; and, having finished
The expiatory pangs, and drank his cup
Of mortal suffering, is denied a grave,
And this is mercy—this is human mercy!
O! truly did he read the heart's deep folds,
And the dark hues of its hypocrisy,
Who cried in bitterness, Alas! for man,
Whose tender mercies in themselves are cruel!
