Sonnet 8 Poem by Joanna Baillie

THERE is a virtue, which to Fortune's height
Follows us not, but in the vale below,
Where dwell the ills of life, disease and woe,
Holds on its steady course, serenely bright:
So some lone star, whose softly beaming light
We mark not in the blaze of solar day,
Comes forth with pure and ever constant ray,
That makes ev'n beautiful the gloom of night.
Thou art that star so lovely and so lone,
That virtue of distress--Fidelity!
And thou, when every joy and hope are flown,
Cling'st to the relics of humanity,
Making with all its sorrows life still dear,
And death, with all its terrors, void of fear.