Then happiness seem’d to be ours,—
We roved by the river or glen;
The birds, and the bushes, and flowers,
Appear’d as a paradise then!
Yon hill, and the stone on the plain,
Remind us whenever we pass,
Where we in a fairy-like train,
Have scamper’d about on the grass!
Gone by are our childhood and youth,
And gone is each transient delight;
They told us,—who told us the truth,—
They’d pass as a dream of the night.
By the faithful discourse of a friend,
We were told, whether cloudy or bright,
This life, long or short, in the end,
Would depart as a dream of the night:—
That in vain among shadows and flowers,
We sought satisfaction within;
True pleasure could never be ours,
Till the heart had been broken for sin
The heart, until such was the case,
Was so puff’d up with pride and deceit,
That no matter how splendid the feast,
That root bitter’d every thing sweet!
He would prove by the sacred page,
And by men of experience too,
It had been so in every age,
And continues so, even till now!
Until sin was expos’d to the light,
In the glass of the Gospel was view’d,
We could not enjoy true delight,—
Till the heart had been chang’d and renew’d.
Nor need we now ask any more,
Why a thing which so many pursue,
And to gain will all things explore,
Should be truly possess’d by so few.
In all earth’s extensive domain,
’Midst all the sweet breezes that blow,
In mountain, or forest, or plain,
Where Eden like luxuries grow;—