LINESTO MYSELF AFTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
PRESS to your bosom, but smile as you press,
The thistle and cankering thorn;
Nor murmur at fate, nor anguish, distress,
For this, my child, you were born;
Poison ofttimes in the fairest of flowers
Is venomous, hidden and deep;
Rest if you will in beautiful bowers,
Expect but sorrow to reap.
The thistle and cankering thorn;
Nor murmur at fate, nor anguish, distress,
For this, my child, you were born;
Poison ofttimes in the fairest of flowers
Is venomous, hidden and deep;
Rest if you will in beautiful bowers,
Expect but sorrow to reap.
This is the process to polish, refine,
The crucible made for the soul;
The world and all its vain peltings combine_
To force to the heavenly goal;
Then cheerfully bow, and mind not the pain.
A blessing is wrapped in the curse;
Tis servile and weak to rebel or complain—
Of all ways this is the worse.
The crucible made for the soul;
The world and all its vain peltings combine_
To force to the heavenly goal;
Then cheerfully bow, and mind not the pain.
A blessing is wrapped in the curse;
Tis servile and weak to rebel or complain—
Of all ways this is the worse.
"Tis base to repine: your Father has said
He chastens but to make pure;
For sorrows the blessed Redeemer has bled;
If deep, no matter, endure!
The cup take and drink, but smile as you drink,
Although it flows over with gall;
Though bitter the dregs, still drain it and think
Your Father has sent you it all.
He chastens but to make pure;
For sorrows the blessed Redeemer has bled;
If deep, no matter, endure!
The cup take and drink, but smile as you drink,
Although it flows over with gall;
Though bitter the dregs, still drain it and think
Your Father has sent you it all.