Antique Dirge.
By R. H. Stoddard.
We are bent with age and cares,
In the last of our gray hairs,
And we lean upon our staffs,
Looking for the epitaphs;
For we are the last, the last,
In the ruins of the Past!
In the last of our gray hairs,
And we lean upon our staffs,
Looking for the epitaphs;
For we are the last, the last,
In the ruins of the Past!
When our youth was in its prime,
Then it was a merry time;
Suns were golden, stars were bright,
And the moon was a delight!
And we wandered in its beams,
In the sweetest, sweetest dreams!
Now our dreams are fled,
For the happy Past is dead,
And we feel it lived in vain,
And will never come again!
No! 't is gone! and gone each trace
Of its once familiar face:
Even the dust to which we yearn
Lost, and lost its very urn!
Nothing remains except its tomb;
(The earth, and heaven so draped with clouds!)
And we who wander in its gloom,
And soon will need our shrouds,
So pale are we, and so aghast,
At the absence of the Past!
Then it was a merry time;
Suns were golden, stars were bright,
And the moon was a delight!
And we wandered in its beams,
In the sweetest, sweetest dreams!
Now our dreams are fled,
For the happy Past is dead,
And we feel it lived in vain,
And will never come again!
No! 't is gone! and gone each trace
Of its once familiar face:
Even the dust to which we yearn
Lost, and lost its very urn!
Nothing remains except its tomb;
(The earth, and heaven so draped with clouds!)
And we who wander in its gloom,
And soon will need our shrouds,
So pale are we, and so aghast,
At the absence of the Past!
