Though the rill roll down from Life’s green mountain
Bright through festal dells of youthful days,
Soon the waters of that glancing fountain
In the Vale of Years must moult its rays.
There the pilgrim, on the bridge that, bounding
Life’s domain, frontiers the wolds of Death,
Startled, for the first time hears resounding
From Eternity a Voice which saith—
“All which is not pure shall melt and wither—
Lo! the Desolator’s arm is bare,