There is no music in my heart,--
No joy within my breast;
In scenes of mirth I have no part,--
In quiet scenes no rest.

Mine is a weariness of life,--
A sickness of the soul;
An ever constant struggling strife,
My feelings to control.

Oh, it was ever--ever thus,
From childhood's earliest hour;
My spirits ever were weighed down,
By some mysterious power.

There seemed some dark, unearthly fate,
Around my life to twine;
That which brings joy to other hearts,
Brings mournfulness to mine.

And yet I am too proud to weep,
I never could complain;
And so they deem my spirit feels
No weariness or pain.

They read not in my sunken eye,
And in my faded cheek.
A weight of wretchedness and woe,
That words could never speak.

Oh, 'tis a weary--weary lot,
To live when joy is gone;--
To feel life has no sunny spot,
Yet still we must live on.

To mingle with the laughing crowd,
Yet feel we are alone;
To know there's not one human heart
Can understand our own.

Oh, Thou, who sitt'st enthroned on high,
Who every heart can see,
Look down in pity and in love,
and take me home to thee.