Classic Poem

Well! be it so — Sorrow , that streams not o'er,
Spares but the eye , to wound the heart the more:
Dumb, infelt pangs, too well, supply the woe,
That grief, in suff'ring silence, shuns to show .
Yet, let my will's reluctant pride submit ,
And learn to love the lot , that heav'n found fit .
All, I can lose, God gave — and, when 'tis flown,
Whom does he wrong, who but resumes his own?

Should I, in fruitless agony, complain ,
Fretting my wound, but multiplies my pain:
While they, who patiently embrace distress,
Teach shame, to satisfy , and grief, to bless .
Whate'er has been , 'tis madness, to regret;
Whate'er must be , shocks least , when braveliest met,
Learn then, my soul, thy course, resign'd to run,
And never pray thy will — but G OD'S , be done .