Traveller, as roaming over vales and steeps,
Thou hast, perchance, beheld in foliage fair
A willow bending o’er a brook—it weeps,
Leaf after leaf, into the stream, till bare
Are the best boughs, the lovliest and the brightest,
Oh! sigh, for well thou may’st, yet as thou sighest,
Think not ’tis o’er imaginary woe;
I tell thee, traveller, such is mortal man,
And so he hangs o’er fancied bliss, and so,
While life is verging to its shortest span,