That lofty mien and cloudless brow?
Ask’st thou whence that cloudless brow?
Bitter is the cup, I trow:
A cup of weary well-spent years,
A cup of sorrows, fasts, and tears;
That cup whose virtue can impart
Such calmness to the troubled heart.
Last of his father’s lineage, he
Many a night on bended knee,
In hunger many a lifelong day,