ON THE DEATH OF THE MARQUIS OF HASTINGS,
November 10th, 1868.
OH! life is but a troubled sea,
A little gust soon o'er,
'Tis vain on it to place our trust,
'Twill pass for evermore!
A little gust soon o'er,
'Tis vain on it to place our trust,
'Twill pass for evermore!
Our fancied joys, so fair and bright,
Ah! they must flee away;
Youthful dreams oft end their flight
In darkness and decay!
Ah! they must flee away;
Youthful dreams oft end their flight
In darkness and decay!
The wished-for prize escapes our grasp,
The glittering goal's ne'er won;
And then with aching hearts we feel
The useless course we have run.
The glittering goal's ne'er won;
And then with aching hearts we feel
The useless course we have run.
