---

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton - The Dream
Work rating: Low

1 2 
Well have the dormant echoes of my breast 
Answer`d the joys thy gentle voice express`d; 
Conjured a vision of the stately mate 
With whom the flattering vision link`d thy fate; 
And follow`d thee through grove and woodland wild, 
Where so much natural beauty round thee smiled. 

"What man so worldly-wise, or chill`d by age, 
Who, bending o`er the faint descriptive page, 
Recals not such a scene in some falr nook-- 
(Whereon his eyes, perchance, no more shall look 
Some hawthorn copse, some gnarl`d majestic tree, 
The favourite play-place of his infancy? 
Who has not felt for Cowper`s sweet lament, 
When twelve years` course their cruel change had sent; 
When his fell`d poplars gave no further shade, 
And low on earth the blackbird`s nest was laid; 
When in a desert sunshine, bare and blank, 
Lay the green field and river`s mossy bank; 
And melody of bird or branch no more 
Rose with the breeze that swept along the shore? 

"Few are the hearts, (nor theirs of kindliest frame,) 
On whom fair Nature holds not such a claim; 
And oft, in after-life, some simple thing-- 
A bank of primroses in early Spring-- 
The tender scent which hidden violets yield-- 
The sight of cowslips in a meadow-field-- 
Or young laburnum`s pendant yellow chain-- 
May bring the favourite play-place back again! 
Our youthful mates are gone; some dead, some changed, 
With whom that pleasant spot was gladly ranged; 

Ourselves, perhaps, more alter`d e`en than they-- 
But there still blooms the blossom-showering May; 
There still along the hedge-row`s verdant line 
The linnet sings, the thorny brambles twine; 
Still in the copse a troop of merry elves 
Shout--the gay image of our former selves; 
And still, with sparkling eyes and eager hands, 
Some rosy urchin high on tiptoe stands, 
And plucks the ripest berries from the bough-- 
Which tempts a different generation now! 

"What though no real beauty haunt that spot, 
By graver minds beheld and noticed not? 
Can we forget that once to our young eyes 
It wore the aspect of a Paradise? 
No; still around its hallow`d precinct lives 
The fond mysterious charm that memory gives; 
The man recals the feelings of the boy, 
And clothes the meanest flower with freshness and with joy. 

"Nor think by older hearts forgotten quite 
Love`s whisper`d words; youth`s sweet and strange delight! 
They live--though after-memories fade away; 
They live--to cheer life`s slow declining day; 
Haunting the widow by her lonely hearth, 
As, meekly smiling at her childrcn`s mirth, 
She spreads her fair thin hands towards the fire, 
To seek the warmth their slacken`d veins require: 
Or gladdening her to whom Heaven`s mercy spares 
Her old companion with his silver hairs; 
And while he dozes--changed, and dull, and weak-- 
And his hush`d grandchild signs, but dares not speak,-- 
Bidding her watch, with many a tender smile, 
The wither`d form which slumbers all the while. 

"Yes! sweet the voice of those we loved! the tone 
Which cheers our memory as we sit alone, 
And will not leave us; the o`er-mastering force, 
Whose under-current`s strange and hidden course 
Bids some chance word, by colder hearts forgot, 
Return--and still return--yet weary not 
The ear which wooes its sameness! How, when Death 
Hath stopp`d with ruthless hand some precious breath, 
The memory of the voice he hath destroy`d 
Lives in our souls, as in an aching void! 

How, through the varying fate of after-years, 
When stifled sorrow weeps but casual tears, 
If some stray tone seem like the voice we knew, 
The heart leaps up with answer faint and true! 
Greeting again that sweet, long-vanish`d sound, 
As, in earth`s nooks of ever-haunted ground, 
Strange accident, or man`s capricious will, 
Wakes the lone echoes, and they answer still! 

"Oh! what a shallow fable cheats the age, 
When the lost lover, on the motley stage, 
Wrapp`d from his mistress in some quaint disguise, 
Deceives her ear, because he cheats her eyes! 
Rather, if all could fade which charm`d us first,-- 
If, by some magic stroke, some plague-spot cursed, 
All outward semblance left the form beloved 
A wreck unrecognised, and half disproved, 
At the dear sound of that familiar voice 
Her waken`d heart should tremble and rejoice, 
Leap to its faith at once,--and spurn the doubt 
Which, on such showing, barr`d his welcome out! 

"And if even words are sweet, what, what is song, 
When lips we love, the melody prolong? 
How thrills the soul, and vibrates to that lay, 
Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away! 
How, to the cadence of the simplest words 
That ever hung upon the wild harp`s chords, 
The breathless heart lies listening; as it felt 
All life within it on that music dwelt, 
And hush`d the beating pulse`s rapid power 
By its own will, for that enchanted hour! 

"Ay! then to those who love the science well, 
Music becomes a passion and a spell! 
Music, the tender child of rudest times, 
The gentle native of all lands and climes; 
Who hymns alike man`s cradle and his grave, 
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave; 
Cheers the poor peasant, who his native hills 
With wild Tyrolean echoes sweetly fills; 
Inspires the Indian`s low monotonous chant, 
Weaves skilful melodies for Luxury`s haunt; 
And still, through all these changes, lives the same, 
Spirit without a home, without a name, 

Coming, where all is discord, strife, and sin, 
To prove some innate harmony within 
Our listening souls; and lull the heaving breast 
With the dim vision of an unknown rest! 

"But, dearest child, though many a joy be given 
By the pure bounty of all-pitying Heaven,-- 
Though sweet emotions in our hearts have birth, 
As flowers are spangled on the lap of earth,-- 
Though, with the flag of Hope and Triumph hung 
High o`er our heads, we start when life is young, 
And onward cheer`d, by sense, and sight, and sound, 
Like a launch`d bark, we enter with a bound; 
Yet must the dark cloud lour, the tempest fall, 
And the same chance of shipwreck waits for all. 
Happy are they who leave the harbouring land 
Not for a summer voyage, hand in hand, 
Pleasure`s light slaves; but with an earnest eye 
Exploring all the future of their sky; 
That so, when Life`s career at length is past, 
To the right haven they may steer at last, 
And safe from hidden rock, or open gale, 
Lay by the oar, and furl the slacken`d sail,-- 
To anchor deeply on that tranquil shore 
Where vexing storms can never reach them more! 

"Wouldst thou be singled out by partial Heaven 
The ONE to whom a cloudless lot is given? 
Look round the world, and see what fate is there, 
Which justice can pronounce exempt from care: 
Though bright they bloom to empty outward show, 
There lurks in each some canker-worm of woe; 
Still by some thorn the onward step is cross`d, 
Nor least repining those who`re envied most: 
The poor have struggling, toil, and wounded pride, 
Which seeks, and seeks in vain, its rags to hide; 
The rich, cold jealousies, intrigues, and strife, 
And heart-sick discontent which poisons life; 
The loved are parted by the hand of Death, 
The hated live to curse each other`s breath: 
The wealthy noble mourns the want of heirs; 
While, each the object of incessant prayers, 
Gay, hardy sons, around the widow`s board, 
With careless smiles devour her scanty hoard; 
And hear no sorrow in her stifled sigh, 
And see no terror in her anxious eye,-- 

While she in fancy antedates the time 
When, scatter`d far and wide in many a clime, 
These heirs to nothing but their Father`s name 
Must earn their bread, and struggle hard for fame; 
To sultry India sends her fair-hair`d boy-- 
Sees the dead desk another`s youth employ-- 
And parts with one to sail the uncertain main, 
Never perhaps on earth to meet again! 

"Nor ev`n does Love, whose fresh and radiant beam 
Gave added brightness to thy wandering dream, 
Preserve from bitter touch of ills unknown, 
But rather brings strange sorrows of its own. 
Various the ways in which our souls are tried; 
Love often fails where most our faith relied; 
Some wayward heart may win, without a thought, 
That which thine own by sacrifice had bought; 
May carelessly aside the treasure cast, 
And yet be madly worshipp`d to the last; 
Whilst thou, forsaken, grieving, left to pine, 
Vainly may`st claim his plighted faith as thine; 
Vainly his idol`s charms with thine compare, 
And know thyself as young, as bright, as fair; 

Vainly in jealous pangs consume thy day, 
And waste the sleepless night in tears away; 
Vainly with forced indulgence strive to smile 
In the cold world, heart-broken all the while, 
Or from its glittering and unquiet crowd, 
Thy brain on fire, thy spirit crush`d and bow`d, 
Creep home unnoticed, there to weep alone, 
Mock`d by a claim which gives thee not thine own, 
Which leaves thee bound through all thy blighted youth 
To him whose perjured soul hath broke its truth; 
While the just world, beholding thee bereft, 
Scorns--not his sin--but thee, for being left! 

"Ah! never to the Sensualist appeal, 
Nor deem his frozen bosom aught can feel. 
Affection, root of all fond memories, 
Which bids what once hath charm`d for ever please 
He knows not: all thy beauty could inspire 
Was but a sentiment of low desire: 
If from thy check the roses hue be gone, 
How should love stay which loved for that alone? 
Or, if thy youthful face be still as bright 
As when it first entranced his eager sight, 

Thou art the same; there is thy fault, thy crime, 
Which fades the charms yet spared by rapid Time. 
Talk to him of the happy days gone by, 
Conceal`d aversion chills his shrinking eye: 
While in thine agony thou still dost rave, 
Impatient wishes doom thee to the grave; 
And if his cold and selfish thought had power 
T` accelerate the fatal final hour, 
The silent murder were already done, 
And thy white tomb would glitter in the sun. 
What wouldst thou hold by? What is it to him 
That for his sake thy weeping eyes are dim? 
His pall`d and wearied senses rove apart, 
And for his heart--thou never hadst his heart. 

"True, there is better love, whose balance just 
Mingles Soul`s instinct with our grosser dust, 
And leaves affection, strengthening day by day, 
Firm to assault, impervious to decay. 
To such, a star of hope thy love shall be 
Whose stedfast light he still desires to see; 
And age shall vainly mar thy beauty`s grace, 
Or wantons plot to steal into thy place, 

Or wild Temptation, from her hidden bowers, 
Fling o`er his path her bright but poisonous flowers,-- 
Dearer to him than all who thus beguile, 
Thy faded face, and thy familiar smile; 
Thy glance, which still hath welcomed him for years 
Now bright with gladness, and now dim with tears! 
And if (for we are weak) division come 
On wings of discord to that happy home, 
Soon is the painful hour of anger past, 
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last; 
And, like some river`s bright abundant tide 
Which art or accident hath forced aside, 
The well-springs of affection, gushing o`er, 
Back to their natural channels flow once more. 

"Ah! sad it is when one thus link`d departs! 
When Death, that mighty severer of true hearts, 
Sweeps through the halls so lately loud in mirth, 
And leaves pale Sorrow weeping by the hearth! 
Bitter it is to wander there alone, 
To fill the vacant place, the empty chair, 
With a dear vision of the loved one gone, 
And start to see it vaguely melt in air! 

Bitter to find all joy that once hath been 
Double its value when `tis pass`d away,-- 
To feel the blow which Time should make less keen 
Increase its burden each successive day,-- 
To need good counsel, and to miss the voice, 
The ever trusted, and the ever true, 
Whose tones were wont to cheer our faltering choice, 
And show what holy Virtue bade us do,-- 
To bear deep wrong, and bow the widow`d head 
In helpless anguish, no one to defend; 
Or worse,--in lieu of him, the kindly dead, 
Claim faint assistance from some lukewarm friend,-- 
Yet scarce perceive the extent of all our loss 
Till the fresh tomb be green with gathering moss-- 
Till many a morn have met our sadden`d eyes 
With none to say "Good morrow;"--many an eve 
Sent its red glory through the tranquil skies, 
Each bringing with it deeper cause to grieve! 

"This is a destiny which may be thine-- 
The common grief: God will`d it should be mine: 
Short was the course our happy love had run, 
And hard it was to say `Thy will be done!` 
"Yet those whom man, not God, hath parted, know 
A heavier pang, a more enduring woe; 
No softening memory mingles with their tears, 
Still the wound rankles on through dreary years, 
Still the heart feels, in bitterest hours of blame, 
It dares not curse the long-familiar name; 
Still, vainly free, through many a cheerless day, 
From weaker ties turns helplessly away, 
Sick for the smiles that bless`d its home of yore, 
The natural joys of life that come no more; 
And, all bewildered by the abyss, whose gloom 
Dark and impassable as is the tomb, 
Lies stretch`d between the future and the past,-- 
Sinks into deep and cold despair at last. 

"Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death, 
Each varied ill that waits on human breath, 
Rather than bid thee linger out thy life 
In the long toil of such unnatural strife. 
To wander through the world unreconciled, 
Heart weary as a spirit-broken child, 
And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven 
If thou could`st die--forgiving and forgiven,-- 
Or with a feverish hope, of anguish born, 
(Nerving thy mind to feel indigant scorn 
Of all the cruel foes who `twixt ye stand, 
Holding thy heartstrngs with a reckless hand,) 
Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, 
And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong! 
Into the aching depths of thy poor heart 
Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain, 
And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, 
And burn like fire through thy bewilder`d brain. 
Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal 
To teach thy fellow-creature how to feel,-- 
Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,-- 
Recal the hopes, the influences of years,-- 
Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, 
Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,-- 
Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow`s truth, 
By all the softening memories of youth-- 
By every hope that cheer`d thine earlier day-- 
By every tear that washes wrath away-- 
By every old remembrance long gone by-- 
By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; 
And learn at length how deep and stern a blow 
Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show! 

"Oh! weak to suffer, savage to inflict, 
Is man`s commingling nature; hear him now 
Some transient trial of his life depict, 
Hear him in holy rites a suppliant bow; 
See him shrink back from sickness and from pain, 
And in his sorrow to his God complain; 
`Remit my trespass, spare my sin,` he cries, 
`All-merciful, Almighty, and All-wise; 
Quench this affliction`s bitter whelming tide, 
Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side:`-- 
--And rises from that mockery of prayer 
To hale some brother-debtor to despair! 

"May this be spared thee! Yet be sure, my child, 
(Howe`er that dream thy fancy hath beguiled,) 
Some sorrow lurks to cloud thy future fate; 
Thy share of tears,--come early or come late,-- 
Must still be shed; and `twere as vain a thing 
To ask of Nature one perpetual spring 
As to evade those sad autumnal hours, 
Or deem thy path of life should bloom, all flowers." 

She ceased: and that fair maiden heard the truth 
With the fond passionate despair of youth, 
Which, new to suffering, gives its sorrow vent 
In outward signs and bursts of wild lament:-- 

"If this be so, then, mother, let me die 
Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky! 
Let me die young; before the holy trust 
In human kindness crumbles into dust; 
Before I suffer what I have not earn`d, 
Or see by treachery my truth return`d; 
Before the love I live for, fades away; 
Before the hopes I cherish`d most, decay; 
Before the withering touch of fearful change 
Makes some failliar face look cold and strange, 
Or some dear heart close knitted to my own, 
By perishing, hath left me more alone! 
Though death be bitter, I can brave its pain 
Better than all which threats if I remain: 
While my soul, freed from ev`ry chance of ill, 
Soars to that God whose high mysterious will 
Sent me, foredoom`d to grief, with wandering feet, 
To grope my way through all this fair deceit!" 
Her parent heard the words with grieved amaze, 
And thus return`d, with calm reproving gaze:-- 

"Blaspheme not Heaven with rash impatient speech, 
Nor deem, at thine own hour, its rest to reach, 
Unhappy child! The full appointed time 
Is His to choose; and when the sullen chime, 
And deep-toned striking of the funeral bell, 
Thy fate to earthly ears shall sadly tell, 
Oh! may the death thou talk`st of as a boon, 
Find thee prepared,--nor come even then too soon! 

"True, ere thou meet`st that long and dreamless sleep, 
Thy heart must ache--thy weary eyes must weep: 
It is our human lot! The fairest child 
That e`er on loving mother brightly smiled,-- 
Most watch`d, most tended--ere his eyelids close 
Hath had his little share of infant woes, 
And dies familiar with the sense of grief, 
Though for all else his life hath been too brief! 
But shall we therefore, murmuring against God, 
Question the justice of his chastening rod, 
And look to earthly joys as though they were 
The prize immortal souls were given to share? 

"Oh! were such joys and this vain world alone 
The term of human hope--where, where would be 
The victims of some tyranny unknown, 
Who sank, still conscious that the mind was free? 
They that have lain in dungeons years on years, 
No voice to cheer their darkness,--they whose pain 
Of horrid torture wrung forth blood with tears, 
Murder`d, perhaps, for some rapacious gain,-- 
They who have stood, bound to the martyr`s stake, 
While the sharp flames ate through the blistering skin,-- 
They that have bled for some high cause`s sake,-- 
They that have perish`d for another`s sin, 
And from the scaffold to that God appeal`d 
To whom the naked heart is all reveal`d, 
Against the shortening of life`s narrow span 
By the blind rage and false decree of man? 
And where obscurer sufferers--they who slept 
And left no name on history`s random page,-- 
But in God`s book of reckoning, sternly kept, 
Live on from year to year, from age to age? 
The poor--the labouring poor! whose weary lives, 
Through many a freezing night and hungry day, 
Are a reproach to him who only strives 
In luxury to waste his hours away,-- 

The patient poor! whose insufficient means 
Make sickness dreadful, yet by whose low bed 
Oft in meek prayer some fellow-sufferer leans, 
And trusts in Heaven while destitute of bread; 
The workhouse orphan, left without a friend; 
Or weak forsaken child of want and sin, 
Whose helpless life begins, as it must end, 
By men disputing who shall take it in; 
Who clothe, who aid that spark to linger here, 
Which for mysterious purpose God hath given 
To struggle through a day of toil and fear, 
And meet him--with the proudest--up in heaven! 
These were, and are not:--shall we therefore deem 
That they have vanish`d like a sleeper`s dream? 
Or that one half creation is to know 
Luxurious joy, and others only woe, 
And so go down into the common tomb, 
With none to question their unequal doom? 
Shall we give credit to a thought so fond? 
Ah! no--the world beyond--the world beyond! 
There, shall the desolate heart regain its own! 
There, the oppress`d shall stand before God`s throne! 
There, when the tangled web is all explain`d, 
Wrong suffer`d, pain inflicted, grief disdain`d, 

Man`s proud mistaken judgments and false scorn 
Shall melt like mists before uprising morn, 
And holy truth stand forth serenely bright, 
In the rich flood of God`s eternal light! 

"Then shall the Lazarus of the earth have rest-- 
The rich man judgment--and the grieving breast 
Deep peace for ever. Therefore look thou not 
So much to what on earth shall be thy lot, 
As to thy fate hereafter,--to that day 
When like a scroll this world shall pass away, 
And what thou here hast done, or here enjoy`d, 
Import but to thy soul:--all else destroy`d! 

"And have thou faith in human nature still; 
Though evil thoughts abound, and acts of ill; 
Though innocence in sorrow shrouded be, 
And tyranny`s strong step walk bold and free! 
For many a kindly generous deed is done 
Which leaves no record underneath the sun-- 
Self-abnegating love and humble worth, 
Which yet shall consecrate our sinful earth! 
He that deals blame, and yet forgets to praise, 
Who sets brief storms against long summer-days, 

Hath a sick judgment. Shall the usual joy 
Be all forgot, and nought our minds employ, 
Through the long course of ever-varying years, 
But temporary pain and casual tears? 
And shall we all condemn, and all distrust, 
Because some men are false and some unjust? 
Forbid it Heaven! far better `twere to be 
Dupe of the fond impossibility 
Of light and radiance which thy vision gave 
Than thus to live Suspicion`s bitter slave. 
Give credit to thy mortal brother`s heart 
For all the good that in thine own hath part, 
And, cheerfully as honest prudence may, 
Trust to his proffer`d hand`s protecting stay: 
For God, who made this teeming earth so full, 
And made the proud dependant on the dull-- 
The strong upon the weak--thereby would show 
One common bond should link us all below. 

"And visit not with a severer scorn 
Faults, whose deep root was with our nature born, 
From which--though others woo`d thee just as vain-- 
Thou, differently tempted, didst abstain: 
Nor dwell on points of creed--assuming right 
To judge how holy in his Maker`s sight 
Is he who at a different altar bends; 
For hence have ris`n the bitterest feuds of friends, 
The wildest wars of nations; age on age 
Hath desecrated thus dark History`s page; 
And still (though not, perhaps, with fire and sword) 
Reckless we raise `The banner of the Lord!` 
Mock Heaven`s calm mercy by the plea we make, 
That all is done for gentle Jesus` sake,-- 
Disturb the consciences of weaker men,-- 
Employ the scholar`s art, the bigot`s pen,-- 
And rouse the wrathful and the spirit-proud 
To language bitter, vehement, and loud, 
Whose unconvincing fury wounds the ear, 
And seeking, with some sharp and haughty sneer, 
How best the opposing party may be stung,-- 
Pleads for Religion with a devil`s tongue! 

"Oh! shall God tolerate the meanest prayer 
That humbly seeks his high supernal throne, 
And man--presumptuous Pharisee--declare 
His fellow`s voice less welcome than his own? 

Is it a theme for wild and warring words 
How best to satisfy the Maker`s claim? 
In rendering to the Lord what is the Lord`s, 
Doth not the thought of violence bring shame? 
Think ye he gave the branching forest-tree 
To furnish fagots for the funeral pyre? 
Or bid his sunrise light the world, to see 
Pale tortured victims perish there by fire? 
No! oft on earth, dragg`d forth in pain to die, 
The heretic may groan--the martyr bleed-- 
But, set before his Sovereign Judge on high, 
`Tis man`s offence condemns him, not his creed. 
His first commandment was to worship Him; 
His next--to love the creature He hath made: 
How blind the eyes of those who read, how dim, 
Who see not here religious fury stay`d! 
From the proud half-fulfilment of his law 
Sternly he turns away his awful face, 
Nor will contentment from their service draw, 
Who fail to grant a fellow-ceature grace. 
Haply the days of martyrdom are past, 
But still we see, without a visible end, 
The bitter warfare of opinion last, 
Tho` God hath will`d that man should be man`s friend. 

Therefore do thou, e`er yet thy youthful heart 
Be tinged with their revilings, safe retreat, 
And in those fierce discussions bear no part,-- 
Odious in all--in woman most unmeet,-- 
But in the still dark night, and rising day, 
Humbly collect thy thoughts, and humbly pray. 

"And be not thou cast down, because thy lot 
The glory of thy dream resembleth not. 
Not for herself was woman first create, 
Nor yet to be man`s idol, but his mate. 
Still from his birth his cradled bed she tends, 
The first, the last, the faithfullest of friends; 
Still finds her place in sickness or in woe, 
Humble to comfort, strong to undergo; 
Still in the depth of weeping sorrow tries 
To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes! 
And doubt not thou,--(although at times deceived, 
Outraged, insulted, slander`d, crush`d, and grieved; 
Too often made a victim or a toy, 
With years of sorrow for an hour of joy; 
Too oft forgot midst Pleasure`s circling wiles, 
Or only valued for her rosy smiles,--) 

That, in the frank and generous heart of man, 
The place she holds accords with Heaven`s high plan; 
Still, if from wandering sin reclaim`d at all, 
He sees in her the angel of recal; 
Still, in the sad and serious hours of life, 
Turns to the sister, mother, friend, or wife; 
Views with a heart of fond and trustful pride 
His faithful partner by his calm fireside; 
And oft, when barr`d of Fortune`s fickle grace, 
Blank ruin stares him darkly in the face, 
Leans his faint head upon her kindly breast, 
And owns her power to soothe him into rest,-- 
Owns what the gift of woman`s love is worth 
To cheer his toils and trials upon earth! 

"Sure it is much, this delegated power 
To be consoler of man`s heaviest hour! 
The guardian angel of a life of care, 
Allow`d to stand `twixt him and his despair! 
Such service may be made a holy task; 
And more, `twere vain to hope, and rash to ask. 
Therefore, oh! loved and lovely, be content, 
And take thy lot, with joy and sorrow blent. 

Judge none; yet let thy share of conduct be, 
As knowing judgment shall be pass`d on thee 
Here and hereafter; so, still undismay`d, 
And guarded by thy sweet thoughts` tramquil shade, 
Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw 
Their light across thy path while life was new, 
Thou shalt move sober on,--expecting less, 
Therefore the more enjoying, happiness." 

There was a pause; then, with a tremulous smile, 
The maiden turn`d and press`d her mother`s hand.-- 
"Shall I not bear what thou hast borne e`erwhile? 
Shall I, rebellious, Heaven`s high will withstand? 
No! cheerly on, my wandering path I`ll take, 
Nor fear the destiny I did not make: 
Though earthly joy grow dim--though Pleasure waneth-- 
This thou hast taught thy child, that GOD remaineth!" 

And from her mother`s fond protecting side 
She went into the world, a youthful bride.
Source
The script ran 0.006 seconds.