We haste it on with worldly care,
Oppressive toil, and meagre fare,
While sin and self-indulgence wear
Our chariot wheels
Increasing still the load they bear,
With countless ills.
How discontented life appears,
By every wind its compass veers,
Our hopes are tarnish'd by the fears
Of fancied ill,
Even tho' the sun of Fortune cheers,
We grumble still.
But why complain for everything
That gives our life a random sting;
Altho' we shift our tether-string
To please our will,
We'll always find the change will bring
Both good and ill.
Then why should we contract our sight
When life turns down the side that's bright
The blast that blows us ills to-night,
With cankering sorrow.
May cheer the clouds which shade the light
That shines to-morrow.
'Tis better then to be content,
Altho' we are not worth a cent;
Our precious hours when wisely spent
Are still the best,
For nature's ills are never sent
To be a pest.
And let it never be our creed,
That when we do an evil deed,
To think that penance can succeed,
To cancel sin;
We pluck the fruit, but still the seed
Remains within.
But may we daily strive to win
That happy world which knows no sin,
'Tis on the heaven we form within
Our bliss depends,
Where life celestial shall begin,
Which never ends.
INDIAN SUMMER.
While winter in the dreary North
Lies crouching ready to leap forth,
In "Indian Summer" doth appear
The gentle seasons of the year.