The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies,
And fairest rays of the sun where evening shadows rise;
The sweetest songs of the bird are sung in the darkest days,
And rarest blooms of the spring are found in the wildest ways.
The brightest blush of the rose is blown as the petals fade.
The greenest grass of the earth is grown in the hidden glade;
The fondest rhyme of the rill is heard in the secret vale,
And lightest lays of the breeze are borne from the dying gale.
The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow,
The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe;
The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain,
And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.
The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll,
The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll;
The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care,
And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.