And lightest lays of the breeze are borne from the dying gale.
The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow,
The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe;
The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain,
And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.
The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll,
The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll;
The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care,
And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.