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!
Our fancied joys, so fair and bright, 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.
Our early hopes of wealth and fame 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.
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!
Some lie alone on alien shores, 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!
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!
How the waves of Time roughly sweep, O'er all our youthful joys;—They bear us on yet only leave Hopes tainted with alloy