There are many joys that the spirit knows
Even on earth, amidst all its woes,
And much of happiness I could tell
To those who have often felt its spell;
To those who know not the reason why
The smile and the tear are in harmony,
Yet sunshine and shower are not more near
Than, in spirits refined, the smile and the tear.
There’s a joy all smiles, a gladsome mirth,
When sitting around the homely hearth,
When the kindly word, and laughing eye
Awaken a smile of sympathy;
When health is beaming on every cheek
In the ringing laugh, and the childish freak—
The innocent jest without restraint
Mocking fear till rebuke
grows faint.
There’s
a joy in the first approach of spring
When all that looked dark and withering,
Is bursting afresh as from the tomb,
And we almost forget the winter’s bloom,
As we mark the buds in their green array,
And feel as hopeful and fresh as they;
When birds fly up and flap the wing,
As if they too of hope could sing.
There’s
joy in the first sweet opening flower,
When the bud we’ve watched from hour to hour,
At last uprears its tiny head,
Perfuming all the flower bed,
Or, in the little jar of mould,
To see the bud expand—unfold,—
The bud that we so fondly nursed,
Into a beauteous flower burst!
There’s
joy in the warm and glowing breath
Of a summer’s day, that dreams not of death,
When the spirit heaves unbidden sigh—
A sill of o’er‑wrought ecstasy—
As she drinks in the warm and balmy air,
And sees her happiness pictured there;
When the bright luxuriant thought flits past
By no shade of sorrow overcast.
There’s
a joy that is more still and calm,
That tempers the soul with a sacred balm,
When we walk the fragrant garden lone,
Just when the son is partly gone,
Saying farewell! to tree and flower,
Leaving the soul in her own pure bower
Of calm and spiritual bliss
Felt only in an hour like this.
There’s
a joy so full of gratitude
That tears can hardly be withstood;
When the heart pours forth its thanks on high
Till utterance fail of its potency;
It is when pain and dangers are o’er,
When the friend we love returns once more
To life and health, while yet pale grief
Stood mute;—nor dared to hope relief.
There’s
joy in music; yea, every tone
Hath a joy which it may call its own,
In plaint most sad, or harmonies
Whose glories upward seem to rise—
A melancholy joy withal—
In sound, as tho’ we could recall
Some happiness we never knew,
Yet fancy brings before our view.
There
is a joy that seems to sleep,
A hidden rapture pure and deep;
It is not mirth—it has no voice—
It would be silent and rejoice;
The soul long prison’d then is free,
Love is the spirit’s liberty;
It is a joy that looks on high
And smiles,—‘tis when a loved one’s nigh.
