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MY QUEST.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

Content you may not buy;

Fleeting the joy that power adorns,

And a crown oft-times is a crown of thorns.

I went to the low, despised, and poor;

For there we are often told,

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Happiness dwells mid folk obscure,

Undazzled by glare of gold.

Nothing but hunger, sorrow, and care,

Vice and misery, everywhere.

I went to the young who pined for joys

The future might have in store;

Older, they find that pleasure cloys,

Then mourn for the days of yore.

The good lamented some trifling sin,

The wicked chafed at restraint therein.

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