The Striving Orphan

Delivered at the celebration of the orphan

They ask: what are these tears we see?
No wonder, then, that the cheeks should wither,
no wonder the orphan's peace is struck down
when darkness has been poured into his heart.
He wandered, a child with no tomorrow to hope in,
no present — his days but passing glances,
no morrow bending over him with a smile;
his evenings are burnt through with sighs.
A father whom fate carried off while he strove,
a mother worn bare by care and sorrows;
she sank, and his house grew desolate of dear ones
whose melodies live in the folds of his ear;
he repeats them whenever sorrow clouds his heart —
and in the orphan there is a wakeful grief, and life.
Leave off care, O you worn thin by cares — perhaps
it will die; and many a dead thing leaves blessings behind.
If you are weighed down by the world and weighed down by sorrow,
rainclouds have veiled the forenoon sun before now.
And if my soul grows used to misery, and though it
should stay, even its favors are fleeting moments.
Take comfort: orphanhood will not kill the young man
nor set the burnings blazing in his depths
if he lives in his world free and striving,
upheld by the prayers of those around him.
He cleaves the road of glory, watched over by eyes
in whose glances kindnesses glitter,
fortifying him with counsel and guiding his course,
so that stumblings fall wide of his aims;
and he cries out in pride: his present is bright,
and a future whose days are smiles.
I am the son of my country: while I breathe its breeze
I guard its precincts against every fall.
And in my country I have the best of mother and father,
though family, standing, and companions be gone from me.