Alfred B. Street
Found in The New-Yorker, July 4, 1840, Vol. IX, No. 16.
If that bright Faith, whose holy beam
The Future’s darkness turns to day,
Be but Delusion’s feverish dream,
Returning Reason sweeps away—
Oh, who could nerve against Despair!
Oh, who survive the loss of Bliss!
And, slave-like, still his burthen bear,
And toil on through a world like this?
Brow-furrowing Care, heart-breaking Grief,
The bitter tears that Anguish showers—
Oh, where from these is found relief—
Oh where, if that dark creed be ours?
Better at once to end our pain,
In the hushed grave our sorrows cast,
Than drag along Life’s galling chain,
And have no goal to reach at last.
But if that Faith which heavenward glows
Sheds in my heart its light sincere,
Then come, oh Earth! with all thy woes—
I care not for my sorrows here.
The soul within me cannot die;
‘T will soon from every pang be free;
Though chained by ‘mortal’ here, on high
‘T will dwell in ‘immortality.’