A thin, weak voice—a fuller, stronger tone,
A peevish, child-like cry, and then a groan!
How quick yon star shoots down the illumined sky—
’Tis gone! And yet we see not where on high,
Its bright lamp shone! ’Tis thus with feeble man—
He twinkles here a moment, and, is gone!
On rolls the world! Each evanescent year
Bears on its current to some distant sphere,
Myriads of mortal forms—vain things of time,
Youth in its hour of hope—and Manhood’s prime—