THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.
33
Straining our gaze far backward o'er the plain
That we have swiftly traversed, we behold,
All thickly scattered o'er the dreary space,
Unnumbered mounds, which mark the graves of joys,
And loves, and hopes that thronged around our path,
To charm our eyes and win our happy hearts
By theft sweet smiles and wild enchanting tones,
And then sank down to mingle with the dust,
Like exhalations of the morning. We
Look earnestly upon the fairy vales,
Where, in life's spring-time hours, we lingered long
To gather garlands of sweet flowers to deck
The heart's own altars—but no flowers are there.
The Autumn winds and Winter tempests swept
Above their blooming loveliness, and they
Perished in their bright beauty, and their souls
Of perfume passed to Heaven. With wearied eyes,
And sad and aching hearts, we turn away
From the lone desolations of the past,
To gaze upon Futurity, and there,
Through the long vista of the years, we see,
That we have swiftly traversed, we behold,
All thickly scattered o'er the dreary space,
Unnumbered mounds, which mark the graves of joys,
And loves, and hopes that thronged around our path,
To charm our eyes and win our happy hearts
By theft sweet smiles and wild enchanting tones,
And then sank down to mingle with the dust,
Like exhalations of the morning. We
Look earnestly upon the fairy vales,
Where, in life's spring-time hours, we lingered long
To gather garlands of sweet flowers to deck
The heart's own altars—but no flowers are there.
The Autumn winds and Winter tempests swept
Above their blooming loveliness, and they
Perished in their bright beauty, and their souls
Of perfume passed to Heaven. With wearied eyes,
And sad and aching hearts, we turn away
From the lone desolations of the past,
To gaze upon Futurity, and there,
Through the long vista of the years, we see,
