Classic Poem

Grieve not, my sister, that this heart returning
To its lov'd home, is welcomed there with sighs,
For it is sweet, when those we love are mourning,
To mix with theirs the waters of our eyes.

And it is sweet to mingle with their sorrow
The little comforts which we can bestow;
Rejoicing, if their wretchedness can borrow
From look of ours a sweetness out of woe.

When hearts we love are revelling in gladness,
Tho' far away we are content and blest;
But when they tremble to the breath of sadness,
We long to press the sufferers to our breast.

Grieve not, my sister, that this heart returning
To its lov'd home, is welcomed there with sighs,
For it is sweet, when those we love are mourning,
To mix with theirs the waters of our eyes.

And it is sweet to mingle with their sorrow
The little comforts which we can bestow;
Rejoicing, if their wretchedness can borrow
From look of ours a sweetness out of woe.

When hearts we love are revelling in gladness,
Tho' far away we are content and blest;
But when they tremble to the breath of sadness,
We long to press the sufferers to our breast.