Still, in Life's  you presume
Eternal holidays will come;
But, in its highest, happiest lot,
O! let it never be forgot,
Life is not an Olympic game,
Where sports and plays must gain the same;
Each month is not the month of May,
Nor is each day a holiday.
Tho' wit may gild Life's atmosphere,
When all is lucid, calm, and clear,
In bleak Affliction's dreary hour,
The brightest flash must lose its power;
While Temper, in the darkest skies,
A kindly light and warmth supplies.