Although the path of human life is rough and
thorny, the mind may always receive consolation by looking forward to the
world to come. The mind which rejects a future state has to thank itself
for its utter misery and hopelessness.
The evening shadows fall upon the grave
On which I sit; it is no common heap,--
Below its turf are laid the bones of one,
Who, sick of life and misery, did quench
The vital spark which in his bosom burn'd.
The shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge
Which lately flooded all the western sky
Has now diminish'd to a single streak,
And here I sit, alone, and listen to
The noise of forests, and the hum of groves.
This is the time to think of nature's God,
When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite
Their various-sounding voices in his praise:
Shall man alone refuse to sing it--yes,
For man, alone, has nought to thank him for.
There's not a joy he gives to us on earth
That is not dash'd with bitterness and gall,
Only when youth is past, and age comes on,
Do we find quiet--quiet is not bliss,
Then tell me, God, what I've to thank thee for.
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