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'Neath the high cliff, that o'er the murm'ring wave Projecting hangs, my languid form I lay—To muse upon my journey's end—the grave! And all the scenes of life now pass'd away.
Pass'd are the days, when sportive childhood here Tripp'd with light step, and lighter heart, the shore,And pass'd the days, when my rude harp was dear To many a list'ning friend that lists no more.
Oh! days, for ever gone—and friends! no more Your love shall soothe me, or your praise delight—Till glad ye greet me on that happy shore Far, far beyond these gloomy realms of night.
Unconscious childhood! best and happiest time! When life is new, and joy and fancy young;Then nature blooms in all her vernal prime, And sweet the music of Hope's syren tongue.
Free as the breeze that wings its viewless way, The infant fancy still delights to rove;With boundless rapture hails the dawning day, And dreams of friendship, confidence, and love.
Fatal repose!—that but more keenly wakes The sigh of anguish, and the burning tear,When hope, and friendship too, the soul forsakes, And leaves the world all cheerless, void, and drear!
