ave died at last,
Preferred that ending to anticipate
Before she knew the ills of man's estate.
For some are left without their parents' care,
To know how sore an orphan's lot to bear;
One girl must marry headlong, and then rue
Her dower given up to God knows who;
Some maids are seized by their own countrymen,
Others, made captive by the Tatar clan
And held thus in a pagan, shameful thrall,
Must drink their tears till death comes ending all.
"But this thy little child need fear no more,
Who, taken early up to heaven's door,
Could walk all glad and shining-pure within,
Her soul still innocent of earthly sin.
Doubt not, my son, that all is well with her,
And let not sorrow be thy conqueror.
Reason and self-command are precious still
And yielding all to blighted hope is ill.
Be in this matter thine own lord, although
Thy longed-for happiness thou must forego.
For man is born exposed to circumstance,
To be the target of all evil chance,
And if we like it or we like it not
We still can not escape our destined lot.
Nor hath misfortune singled thee, my son;
It lays its burdens upon every one.
Thy little child was mortal as thou art,
She ran her given course and did depart;
And if that course was brief, yet who can say
That she would have been happier to stay?
The ways of God are past our finding out,
Yet what He holds as good shall we misdoubt?
And when the spirit leaves us, it is vain
To weep so long; it will not come again.
And herein man is hardly just to fate,
To bear in mind what is unfortunate
In life and to forget all that transpires
In full accordance with his own desires.
And such is Fortune's power, dearest son,
That we should not lament when she hath done
A bitter turn, but thank her in that she
Hath held her hand from greater injury.
So, yielding to the common order, bar
Thy heart to more disasters than now are;
Gaze at the happiness thou dost retain:
What is not loss, that must be rated gain.
"And finally, what profits the expense
Of thy long labor and the years gone hence,
While thou didst spend thyself upon thy books
And knewest scarce how lightsome pleasure looks?
Now from thy grafting pluck the fruit and save
Something of value from frail nature's grave.
To other men in sorrow thou hast shown
The comfort left them: hast none for thine own?
Now, master, heal thyself: time is the cure
For all; but he whose wisdom doth abjure
The common ways, he should anticipate
The healing for which