Response.
Dear Annie:
What though thy lot has been to bear
Much adverse fate, ’mid toil and care,
Raised expectations crushed and dead,
And hope’s triumphant visions fled?
Dost thou not feel a mightier power,
A hand divine in this dark hour?
Does not thy heart begin to feel
The claims of Him who wounds to heal?
’Tis true, my child, misfortune’s blast
But breaks the rock whence gems are cast;
The polished steel and marble white,
Was once as rough and dark as night.
As purest gold and clearest glass
Must through the hottest furnace pass,
So oft repeated strokes are given,
To form and fit a soul for Heaven.
What though you’ve learned of envy’s wiles,
The slanderous tongue, which oft beguiles?
The sweetest fruit on bush and trees,
Is culled and plucked by birds and bees.
Although you’ve traced the landscape fair,
And sought for knowledge rich and rare,
Gone to the depth of hidden ore,
That richest mine you might explore,
Lines “To my Mother,” more I prize
Than all the paintings ’neath the skies;
And they will ever bring to me,
Dear child, sweet memories of thee.
Although I prize the painter’s art,
Yet more th’ effusions of the heart;
Kind feelings, sympathy and love,
All arts and wealth I prize above.
Since then these trials but refine,
Bring out deep caverns’ hidden mine,
Resign all to that power on high,
Till sufferings cease and sorrows die.