It is not Time,-- I joy to see
My children growing up;
It is not Sin,-- remorse for me
Holds out no bitter cup;
Nor doth Mammon's dreary din
Add its gloom to Time or Sin.

It is not that the Past was sweet,--
Many griefs were there;
It is not that the Future's feet
Are shrouded up in care;
Providence is wise and kind,
And I am strong for heart and mind.

Why, then, be sad? why thus, my heart,
Disquieted within?
Great is the mercy that thou art
Unscared by care and sin;
That Time to thee has small alloy,
And Memory's thoughts are thoughts of joy.

Why, then, so sad? -- My friends of old
Are dead and gone, or changed;
The poor dear nest of home is cold,
And each old haunt estranged;
So that I walk a stranger there,
With none to feel for how I fare!

True,-- many new-found friends may throng,
And make a passing show;
But ever as they stream along
Like dreams they come and go,--
And,-- however kind they be,
They bring not back the Past to me!