“W OE'S me! the peaceful prophet cried,
“Spare me this troubled life;
To stem man's wrath, to school his pride,
To head the sacred strife!

“O place me in some silent vale,
Where groves and flowers abound;
Nor eyes that grudge, nor tongues that rail,
Vex the truth-haunted ground!”

If his meek spirit err'd, opprest,
That God denied repose,
What sin is ours, to whom Heaven's rest
Is pledged, to heal earth's woes?