But when will a canopy o’er him be spread,
Like the desert-girt Eden he’s leaving behind.
Oh, thus in this wide waste of life do we grieve,
When the spirits we meet with congenial and kind,
Urged on by the stern hand of destiny, leave
The hearts that had loved them in sorrow behind.
The wound may be healed and the pain be allayed,
And spirits as fair may our pathway illume;
But ne’er in such splendor by Fancy arrayed,
As they whom we met in affection’s first bloom.