ANTIDOTE TO DESPONDENCY.
By Carlos Wilcox
Would'st thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Poor blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold,
Close to its 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. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers,
Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night
When death is waiting for thy numbered hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight:
Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed:
Do something—do it soon—with all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop it long at rest,
And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest.
—Carlos Wilcox.