If ye have sins, consume them before God,
As on an altar in your secret heart;
If ye have sorrows, hide their bitter smart,
Till strong to crush them to the trampled sod;
Why blow the reek of every smouldering clod
Into all faces, in the home and mart?
And on our vision force each festering part,
To give to Pity what deserves the rod.
A brave man buffeted on Fortune's tide,
Ashamed of his intrusive misery,
Draws d'er his breast the mantle of his pride,
With grace that veils its firm validity;
And where the weak shed gloom and wretchedness,
He turns to mellow light the fires of his distress.
