Arthur Brooke

IF from the chaos of my youthful fate

Have been shaped out some elements of rest;

If, beyond hope, the madness of my breast

Hath felt at least its paroxysms abate,

Leaving my heart next wholly desolate;

If, in my brain, where, like a spirit unblest,

Thought long was racked, now peace can claim a nest,

In halcyon hours, to musing consecrate;

Throned on composure, if the soul thus reigns,

Suffering no hopes to allure, no dreams to abuse,

But, o’er the wreck of perished joys and pains,

Calmly contemplative its course pursues,

Strong, self-possessed,—’t is not from what it gains,

But what it can resign, such power accrues.