The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.