I saw a boy, who bore with joyful stride
His playmate o'er a stream, for there were found,
He thought, more joyful games on better ground
By those who once could reach the other side.
‘We all have floods of grief to wade,’ I cried,
‘And bliss may lie beyond their waves profound;
But ah! how many feeble souls are drowned
In passing helpless through the gloomy tide.’

And blessed is his deed of love—
The man who, when he sees another wade
The bitter stream of sorrow and distress,
Will look not on his toil with apathy,
But, turning in compassion, lend his aid,
And help him on the shore of happiness.