Than thus in an insipid calm to pine,
Watching my aged guardian’s slow decline;
Youth was, I deemed, the season for delight,
E’en should its sorrows with its joys be mine,
The deepest shadows mark the brightest light,
Dim is the hour when both in one dull hue unite!
Sin may invite the soul; by discontent
The wayward soul herself inviteth sin;
I sought a trial—God the trial sent.
One formed a colder heart than mine to win,