And still, the better they their sorrows bore, 50
His friendly nature made him feel them more.
He judged they must have many a heavy hour
When the mind suffers from a want of power;
When, troubled long, we find our strength decay’d,
And cannot then recal our better aid;
For to the mind ere yet that aid has flown,
Grief has possess’d, and made it all his own;
And patience suffers, till, with gather’d might,
The scatter’d forces of the soul unite.