Into the web of deathless destiny
Till at that solemn audit thou dost stand
Where deed and thought shall find their perfect weight,
And just reward.
MISTAKEN GRIEF.
"There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest."—Job.
We mourn for those who toil,
The wretch who ploughs the main,
The slave, who hopeless tills the soil
Beneath the stripe and chain;
For those who in the world's hard race,
O'erwearied and unblest,
A host of gliding phantoms chase,
Why mourn for those who rest?
We mourn for those who sin,
Bound in the tempter's snare,
Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in
To prisons of despair,—
Whose hearts by whirlwind passions torn
Are wreck d on folly's shore,
But why in anguish should we mourn
For those who sin no more?
We mourn for those who weep,
Whom stern afflictions bend,
Despairing o'er the lowly sleep
Of lover or of friend,
