There be that count your tears,—He hath numbered the hairs of thy head,—
There be that can forgive your ill, with kind considerate pity:
Count ye this for comfort, Justice hath her balances,
And yet another world can compensate for all:
The daily martyrdom of patience shall not be wanting of reward;
Duty is a prickly shrub, but its flower will be happiness and glory.
Ye too, the friendless, yet dependent, that find nor home nor lover,
Sad imprisoned hearts, captive to the net of circumstance,—
And ye, too harshly judged, noble unappreciated intellects,
Who, capable of highest, lowlier fix your just ambition in content,—