Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.
J. Wilson.
See’st yon light cloud, the wind is hurrying by?
The eagle’s scarce more rapid in his flight,
’Tis thus the years of youth,—hope—rapture fly,
Clad in attractive hues and robes of light,
Swiftly they fly, but ah! a weary night
Their reign succeeds—a more than midnight gloom,
That gives no peace to morn’s uprising bright,