Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate;
With wasted strength the goal to spy,
Cling feebly to the flapping sail,
And at a stranger's feet to die.
For thee the widowed mate shall gaze
From leafy chamber curtained fair;
And, wailing lays at evening's close,
Lament thy loss in deep despair.
Even thus, o er life s unresting tide,
Chilled by the billow's beating spray,
Some adventitious prize to gain,
Ambition's votaries urge their way;
Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff,
Some proud Mont-Blanc they fain would climb,
Snatch wreaths of laurel steeped in gore,
Or win from Fame a strain sublime;
They lose of home the heartfelt joys,
The charm of seasons as they roll,
And stake, amid their blinding course,
The priceless birthright of the soul:
Years fleet, and still they struggle on,
Their dim eye rolls with fading fire,
Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp,
Taste the brief victory, and expire.
