Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,
Is with that wholesome office satisfied;
While unrepining sadness is allied
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.
Wordsworth.
Grant, gracious Lord, as through this troubled scene
I walk unsafely, stumbling as I go,
Glimpses of hope, the murky clouds between,
May break at times, and light the way below;
But if I may not such sweet solace find,