JOY PURCHASED BY SORROW.
"The Pascal-lamb was eaten with bitter herbs, to shew us that there is no arriving at joy, but through the gate of sorrow."
Pascal.
The joy of love,—which like the sun,
Gilds the brief cloud of wo,—
How may that halcyon gift be won?—
Go! ask of those who know.—
They say, that on the slippery steep
The flowret grew,
And hearts that throb, and eyes that weep
Win it, bright with morning dew,—
That sleepless souls with jealous care
Must guard it from the nipping air,—
That sighs will flow.—
And the fond breast be sick with fears,
Lest the rude breath of fleeting years
Might lay its idol low.—
The joy of wealth!—'tis built on pride;
Yet they who win can tell,
Of dangers 'neath the golden tide,
Of heights whence thousands fell,
Of quicksands 'neath the treacherous wave,
Of labors in some baneful clime
Which waste of health the balmy prime,
Or ope the untimely grave.
The joy of knowledge!—Ask the sage
The worth of all his toil,
The watching o'er the midnight oil
Gave youth the hue of age.
Perchance disease his strength impairs,
Or memory trembles on her throne:
Haste!—ask the price of all his cares,
Alas!—the treasure 's gone.
The joy of heaven!—'Tis bought with prayers,
With deeds that shun the view,
With penitential tears and cares
Which worldlings never knew:—
When earth-born pleasures spread their wings,
Or hide them in the tomb,
From the damp soil of sorrow springs
The bud of deathless bloom.