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THE SORROWFUL WORLD. 191
The clouds in Heaven their placid motions borrow From the funereal tread of men in sorrow; Or, when they scud across the stormy day, Mimic the flight of hosts in disarray.
Mostly men's many-featured faces wear Looks of fixed gloom, or else of restless care; The very babes, that in their cradles lie, Out of the depths of unknown troubles cry,
Labor itself is but a sorrowful song,
The protest of the weak against the strong;
Over rough waters, and in obstinate fields,
And from dank mines, the same sad sound it yields.
O God ! the fountain of perennial gladness ! Thy whole creation overflows with sadness; Sights, sounds, are full of sorrow and alarm; Even sweet scents have but a pensive charm.
Doth earth send nothing up to Thee but moans ? Father ! canst Thou find melody in groans? Oh can it be, that Thou, the God of bliss, Canst feed Thy glory on a world like this ?
Ah me ! that sin should have such chemic power To turn to dross the gold of nature's dower, And straightway, of its single self, unbind The eternal vison of Thy jubilant Mind!