Make heard the voice that stoic virtue lends;
But I, who in the world my cup of tears
Oft to the dregs have drain’d, no cure could find
For grief, but what from grief I might derive;
When with vain struggling tired, the powerless mind
Submissive ceased beneath the weight to strive.
Dear friend! wilt thou believe me? time will come,
When the sharp edge of sorrow worn away,
That grief and anguish now so burdensome,
At length a placid sadness will allay;