Is honest toil, pits that against dull care.
And yet, in spite of labor, faith, or prayer,
Dark clouds and fearful o'er our paths are driven;
They take the shape of monsters in the air,
And almost shut our eager gaze from heaven!
Disease is there, with slimy, loathsome touch,
With hollow, blood-shot eyes and eager clutch,
Longing to strike us down with pangs of pain,
And bind us there, with weakness' galling chain.
Ruin is there, with cunning ambush laid,