One happy hour of wit and glee;
If e'er of death I have a fear,
It would with friends the parting be!
Then wear, my frame, and droop, and fade,
And fall, and dust to dust return;—
With friendship's rites sincerely paid,
'Tis sweeter to be mourned than mourn.
For mourn we must—it is a pain,
A penalty that man must pay
For dreaming childhood o'er again,