With all its peril, all its pain.
But hark! a long-lost voice[48] I hear,
Like distant music, soft and clear;
It bears the tone of mild rebuke,
Yet such as pride itself might brook:
‘Cease, wayward mourner, to complain,
And learn a wiser, purer strain;
Weave not the web of fancied woes,
But bless the gift high Heaven bestows:
Thy Cherub, in a woman’s form,