Sonnet (1835)

Earth hath her sorrows,—yet methinks ‘t were well,
     To pass unmurmuring through life’s thorny maze,
     And lift the trembling soul in frequent praise,
For streams of mercy that forever swell,
And freely flow for us. We do not dwell
     In shadows that the eye can never pierce;—
     The foes around us,—subtle, quick, and fierce,
Are not omnipotent,—and we may quell
     Their numberless legions, in the strength of Him
     In whose dread presence even the sun is dim.
Here is our field of warfare,—yet, e’en here
     There are some spots of verdure, shadowing forth
     Faintly, the glories that are not of earth.
Then let us murmur not, nor faint with fear.