'When present sorrows every thought employ,
Our father's woes may take the garb of joy,
And, knowing what our sires have undergone,
Ourselves can smile, though weary, wandering on.
For if our youth a thunder-cloud o'ershadows,
Changing to barren swamps Life's flowering meadows,
We know that fiery flash and bursting peal
Others, like us, were forced to hear and feel;
And while they moulder in a quiet grave,
Robbed of all havings—worthless all they have—