And as its waving leaves, around,
With morning’s tears begem the ground
The Zephyr trembles, flying!
And now behold yon little Cot
All dreary and forsaken!
And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot,
To fall, like Jacob and his race,
And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace,
Which way thy course is taken.
Yet, if for Truth and feeling known,