 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
TO MY WIFE.
Nay, my all of joy that's left,
Droop not thus in gloom, Lydia;
Though each flower of hope be cleft,
Other buds will bloom, Lydia;
Never of the future borrow—
Though another storm of sorrow
Rifle every leaf to-morrow
From the thorny stem, Lydia,
Let us with unshaken mind,
Yield such toys, and be resigned,
And, if nought but thorns we find,
Make a toy of them, Lydia.
Droop not thus in gloom, Lydia;
Though each flower of hope be cleft,
Other buds will bloom, Lydia;
Never of the future borrow—
Though another storm of sorrow
Rifle every leaf to-morrow
From the thorny stem, Lydia,
Let us with unshaken mind,
Yield such toys, and be resigned,
And, if nought but thorns we find,
Make a toy of them, Lydia.
56
Fortune must be blind indeed,
We mistake her powers, Lydia,
Else could love unheeded plead?
Faithful love, like ours, Lydia?
Let us, then, her gifts disdaining,
Without murmur, or complaining,
Or the will of Heaven arraigning,
Fix our hopes above, Lydia;
Though, while we are pilgrims here,
Poverty may press severe,
Yet we shall, through life, my dear,
Still be rich in love, Lydia.
We mistake her powers, Lydia,
Else could love unheeded plead?
Faithful love, like ours, Lydia?
Let us, then, her gifts disdaining,
Without murmur, or complaining,
Or the will of Heaven arraigning,
Fix our hopes above, Lydia;
Though, while we are pilgrims here,
Poverty may press severe,
Yet we shall, through life, my dear,
Still be rich in love, Lydia.
Droop not, dearest—God is kind
When he seems severe, Lydia;
Blessings yet remain behind
Which we hold most dear, Lydia:
Innocence the soul's best treasure,
Mutual faith, disdaining measure,
Love, and its appendant pleasure,
What can these destroy, Lydia?
These are our—with these endued,
Nought should check our gratitude
To the source of every good
Mortals can enjoy, Lydia.
When he seems severe, Lydia;
Blessings yet remain behind
Which we hold most dear, Lydia:
Innocence the soul's best treasure,
Mutual faith, disdaining measure,
Love, and its appendant pleasure,
What can these destroy, Lydia?
These are our—with these endued,
Nought should check our gratitude
To the source of every good
Mortals can enjoy, Lydia.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |