Poems (David)/On the Death of the Marquis of Hastings
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.
Our early hopes of wealth and fame
Leave shattered wrecks behind;
Yet the phantoms of our early dreams
Return on the waves of Time!
Leave shattered wrecks behind;
Yet the phantoms of our early dreams
Return on the waves of Time!
Oh! there are thoughts, still so dear,
Of moments past and o'er;
We feel the world we would gladly give
To recall them back once more.
Of moments past and o'er;
We feel the world we would gladly give
To recall them back once more.
We pause to think of vacant seats,
Of many a long lost face;
For some have sought a distant land,
And some have run their race!
Of many a long lost face;
For some have sought a distant land,
And some have run their race!
Some lie alone on alien shores,
Some rest beneath the waves;
Whilst others, too, alas! have sunk
Into an early grave!
Some rest beneath the waves;
Whilst others, too, alas! have sunk
Into an early grave!
Our childhood's days we little heed,
They are our happiest time,
Until, alas! we sigh to feel
Too soon they're left behind!
They are our happiest time,
Until, alas! we sigh to feel
Too soon they're left behind!
Where flowers are lovely, fair, and bright,
The earth upon them smile,
And thus we think in later days
Of when we were a child!
The earth upon them smile,
And thus we think in later days
Of when we were a child!
How the waves of Time roughly sweep,
O'er all our youthful joys;—
They bear us on yet only leave
Hopes tainted with alloy
O'er all our youthful joys;—
They bear us on yet only leave
Hopes tainted with alloy