Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/56

56

"The Pascal-lamb was eaten with bitter herbs, to shew us that there is no arriving at joy, but through the gate of sorrow." .

The joy of love,—which like the sun, Gilds the brief cloud of wo,— How may that halcyon gift be won?— Go! ask of those who know.— They say, that on the slippery steep The flowret grew, And hearts that throb, and eyes that weep Win it, bright with morning dew,— That sleepless souls with jealous care Must guard it from the nipping air,— That sighs will flow.— And the fond breast be sick with fears, Lest the rude breath of fleeting years Might lay its idol low.—

The joy of wealth!—'tis built on pride; Yet they who win can tell, Of dangers 'neath the golden tide, Of heights whence thousands fell, Of quicksands 'neath the treacherous wave, Of labors in some baneful clime Which waste of health the balmy prime, Or ope the untimely grave.

The joy of knowledge!—Ask the sage The worth of all his toil, The watching o'er the midnight oil Gave youth the hue of age.