Classic Poem

The heart—the heart! oh! let it be
A true and bounteous thing;
As kindly warm, as nobly free,
As eagle's nestling wing.
Oh! keep it not, like miser's gold,
Shut in from all beside;
But let its precious stores unfold,
In mercy, far and wide,
The heart—the heart, that's truly blest,
Is never all its own;
No ray of glory lights the breast
That beats for self alone.

The heart—the heart! oh! let it spare
A sigh for other's pain;
The breath that soothes a brother's care
Is never spent in vain.
And though it throb at gentlest touch,
Or sorrow's faintest call,
'Twere better it should ache too much,
Than never ache at all.
The heart—the heart, that's truly blest,
Is never all its own;
No ray of glory lights the breast
That beats for self alone.