  Let melancholy mortals grieve And tell their tale of sorrow, Their gloomy spirits to relieve, But all returns to-morrow; For all the while they court their grief, Unwilling to forsake it, And in the way they seek relief, Their life is what they make it. They brood o'er sorrow day by day, With dreams they are affrighted, But never strive to cast away What most their spirits blighted; And if fair fortune chance to smile And give no cause for sorrow, They're not content to rest awhile, But off they go and borrow. Avoiding all life's pleasant ways Their life is always clouded, They see no happy sunny days, For all in gloom is shrouded; They never see the flowers that bloom As on Life's road they ramble, But in the darkest paths of gloom Are seeking for a bramble. The pleasures of this life do not Depend on its surrounding, But if the heart's trained as it ought, Content will be abounding; The silent heart's the seat of joy, And by continual training Life's trials scarcely will annoy The soul where peace is reigning. Then tell me not Fate made them so, And they cannot avoid it, That all their life is doomed to woe, And they have not alloyed it; For all the while they court their grief, Unwilling to forsake it, And in the way they seek relief, Their life is what they make it. The atmosphere may be redolent With fragrance from some happy soul Whose unconscious influence has sent Attractive power, like magnetic pole, Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious, Infectious, the mirth of a smile, And the ominous brow umbrageous, Casts aside its lowerings vile. |
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