human
Sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing, he
gpt
Though life's valley be a vale of tears, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, Whose glory, with a light that never fades, Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades; And while it shows the land the soul desires, The language of the land she seeks inspires. Thus touched, the tongue receives a sacred cure Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach; No longer labours merely to produce The pomp of sound or tinkle without use; Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, While all the happy man possessed before, The gift of nature, or the classic store, Is made subservient to the grand design For which heaven formed the faculty divine. So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes, And grins with wonder at the jar he makes; But let the wise and well-instructed hand Once take the shell beneath his just command: In gentle sounds it seems as it complained Of the rude injuries it late sustained, Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours His praise along.