But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,
Are few and distant on the desert soil;
The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man!
Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared—
Proud child of reason! how art thou prepared?
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d,
And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud,