It never did, and never will,
Put things in better fashion,
Though rough the road, and steep the hill,
To fly into a passion.
And never yet did fume or fret
Mend any broken bubble;
The direst evil, bravely met,
Is but a conquered trouble.
Our trials—did we only know—
Are often what we make them;
And mole-hills into mountains grow,
Just by the way we take them.
Who keeps his temper, calm and cool,
Will find his wits in season;
But rage is weak, a foaming fool,
With neither strength nor reason.
And if a thing be hard to bear
When nerve and brain are steady,
If fiery passions rave and tear,
It finds us mained already.
Who yields to anger conquered lies—
A captive none can pity;
Who rules his spirit, greater is
Than he who takes a city.
A hero he, though drums are mute,
And no gay banners flaunted;
He treads his passions under foot,
And meets the world undaunted.
Oh, then, to bravely do our best,
Howe'er the winds are blowing;
And meekly leave to God the rest,
Is wisdom worth the knowing!