THE COMPLAINT.
Oft has the splendour of a court,
Where wealth and elegance retort,
And bliss ideal reigns;
Midst sparkling gems and brilliant toys,
Been deem’d inferior to the joys
Which sport on rural plains.
But ah! our share of bliss below,
Bears no proportion to the woe
That rankles in the heart:
For all the happiest man can boast,
Is but a partial bliss at most—
A happiness in part!
Say, has that God, whose word from high
With orbs unnumber’d gem’d the sky,
And bade the waters flow;
In mercy, or in wrath, decreed
That ev’ry heart by turns must bleed,
And taste the cup of woe?
Tho’ what we wish attend our pray’rs
A something yet the joy impairs,
And spreads a dark’ning gloom.
Our fears are ever on alarm,
And always point to future harm,
Which yet may never come.
Let Casuists inform me why
Our bliss is tainted with alloy;
Why mingled thus with woes?
For such the fate of all our joys,
That what most ardently we prize,
We always fear to lose.