RONDEAU.

AT Sorrow's step we turn to flee,

For, petted long by youth and glee,

We shrink instinctive from the stern,

Sad face of her whose fingers burn,

Not ours, we cry, to bend the knee.

But soon we weeping, powerless, see

Our little realm laid waste. Ah me!

Our faults, our sins too late we learn

At Sorrow's step.

O mistress dread, Adversity!

Dear lessons those we learn of thee.

To friends beloved still may we yearn,

Their hands still press; with sad concern

Still may their warm hearts ready be

At Sorrow's step!