If the morning of life we behold,
When all seems delightful and bright,
The rosebud doth scarcely unfold,
But ’tis gone as a dream of the night!
If to youth our attention we turn,
When all is enchanting and free;
When very few know how to mourn,
And all things seem pleasant and gay.
A something we sought in the fields,—
Alas! as oft sought it in vain!
The joys that such scenery yields,
Are such as we cannot retain.
We sought in the meadows and groves,
In the woods, by the rivers and streams;
But all our vain hopes and our loves,
Were like wood to the furnace’s flames!
The old pathway still puts us in mind,
Though its stones are forsaken and green,
Of youthful affections, so kind,
Though now scarce a vestige is seen!
We long have been wandering abroad,
And have learn’d to sorrow and weep;
While some have been lost on the road,
And others have sunk in the deep!
In the fire-side circle we sought,
But found by the glimmering light,
That soon as the shadows we caught;
They fled like a dream of the night!
There were some whom we knew in the flesh,
Seem’d happy, and healthy, and strong;
But before they obtain’d their wish,
They, alas! in a moment were gone!
’Twas gloomy and dark at their end,
No light in their death did appear;
That happiness would them attend,
Was hoped—but hope turn’d to despair!
Alas! how neglectful they lived,
How sad an example they set,
How many fair youths were deceiv’d,
Who are not yet free from the net!