The cares and crosses surely come
To cloud, at times, the brightest home;
And mine was not exempt from these,
For sighs and sorrows and disease
Were all, in turn, my painful lot—
’Twere better though they were forgot.
I’ll finish in the brightest strain,
Nor have my friends peruse, with pain,
A clouded page, when my intent
Was solely for their merriment;