There are, whose life, perch’d on a ledge of grief,
Scarcely can draw some comfort from its tears;
That thought probes not sensation, their relief,
Else how could Nature pant through such long years?
These may drink in the smile which Nature weaves
O’er all her sons alike, the proud, the poor;
They, oft, shall catch a solace from the sheaves
Of golden light, that pave heaven’s evening floor;
Nature has own’d her children, as they have smil’d,
Rapt in the glancing fields, where ocean ripples,
And hush’d them, as some mother, to her child
Gently discloses her just budded nipples!
I think, long years, long woes, hard times, forgot,
They stand inspired, nor dream of their sad lot.