And all the variegated kind
That haunt the grove or ride the wind,
All—all conspired with tuneful lays
To hymn their great Creator's praise;
Nature, and nature's voice were glad—
While man—doomed man—alone was sad.
But it is past,—one pilgrim more
Shall wear the chain his fathers wore:
He, too, affection's bonds shall nourish,
While yet, alas! their cause may flourish;—
And, when those links are rent in twain,
He, too, shall find the broken chain.
Which once had cheered his happier day,
Corrode his inmost heart away.
And is this all? And do we cherish
The flower that must to-morrow perish?
And is our earthly term so brief
Of bliss, so permanent of grief?
Affections blighted and decaying,
Hope once how bright! but still delaying;
Where'er our wanderings, shall show
This life a pilgrimage of woe.
