How prone the mind to search for ill,

How prone the mind to search for ill,
To fancy mighty woes!
Shortly the cup of life will fill,
And rob it of repose.

How sharp and numerous are the pangs
Imagination gives!
So sharp, that life itself oft hangs
In doubt, nor dies nor lives.

Could we our woes with truth divide,
The sterling and ideal,
What crowds would stand on fancy's side!
How few upon the real!

Creatures of fear, we drag along,
And fear where no fear is;
Our griefs we labour to prolong!
Our joys in haste dismiss.

Spirit of power, thy strength impart;
This fearful spirit chase
Far off, and make my feeble heart
Thy constant dwelling-place.

O if to me thy strength be given,
If thou be on my side,
Then hell as soon shall conquer heaven
As I can be destroyed.