Or bear my most insidious foe within?
And whither would I go? where have I sought
Refuge from secret gloom and bitter thought?
Deep in the barren wilderness of pride?
Some crosses are from heaven sent,
And some we fashion of our own;
By envy, pride, and discontent
What thorns across our path are strown!
Not these the thorns that form the crown,
Not this the cross that lifts on high,—