The mountain-oak oft seems most sound, The breast may hide a deadly wound, Along the crushed and crumbling tower So laugh and jest in pleasure's bower Soft summer's leaves are fresh and fair, Fair on the cheek is beauty's blush, 'Tis not-'tis not the clam'rous groan The querulous complaint The gushing tear the frequent moan That speaks the soul's lament. Sorrow's a proud a lonely thing, And never stoops to mourn There oft is woe which never weeps Deep in the soul their fountain sleeps, never glows? Who would not spurn that waveless rest Which neither ebbs nor flows? Then, think not, though the brow is free From shade of gloom or care, The breast is as a summer sea, And happiness dwells there. Ah, think not, though the sunny glance And on the lip the jest may dance, |