Wouldst thou from find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed by woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee, like a shower of gold.
‘Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold,
Close to the heart, the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty; not, when all unrolled,
Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair
Breathes freely its perfumes, throughout the ambient air.
Rouse to some work of high and wholly love,
And thou an angel’s happiness shalt know;
Shalt bless the earth; while, in the world above,
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow.
The seed that in these few and fleeting hours
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine, in heaven’s immortal bowers.