For us to be murmuring still
Is wicked, ungrateful and bold.
Yet well-meaning people I’ve seen,
Who think true religion is shown
By a sort of a wo-begone mein,
And a whining, conventicle tone.
’Tis true, there’s a season to mourn,
As Solomon says—ne’ertheless
Our grief should be manfully borne,
And ’tis folly to cherish distress.