Man's heart doth ever tend towards the right:
We cannot wander from the Perfect Way,
But inward voices whisper in their might, —
Thy feet are turned astray!

No heart but sometimes feels remorseful pangs,
When passion holds its empire, fierce and wild,
Nor bends in sorrow as a mother hangs
Above her wayward child.

No eye so stolid but a tear will steal
Out of its chambers with resistless force;
No heart so stony that it will not feel
The meltings of remorse!

And all men yet, however fallen and base,
Possess some traits of true nobility;
The heart still whispers from its secret place,
All they were meant to be!

And knowing this, it is my hope that all
Shall yet fulfil the human heart's desire,
And in some region, free from earthly thrall,
May labour and aspire.

One God to wipe away all guilt and tears!
One hope to nerve the mind and soothe the breast!
One Heart to guide through all the deathless years!
One Way that leads to rest!