MAN hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends;
On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends.
With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes,
Torn from his mother's arms,-
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms?
Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours,
Before his wish'd return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,
In thought he loves to roam;
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers with a sigh
The comforts of his home.
Youth comes; the toils and cares of life
Torment the restless mind;
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find?
Then is not youth, as fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy?
MAN hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends;
On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends.
With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes,
Torn from his mother's arms,-
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms?
Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours,
Before his wish'd return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,
In thought he loves to roam;
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers with a sigh
The comforts of his home.
Youth comes; the toils and cares of life
Torment the restless mind;
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find?
Then is not youth, as fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy?
Ah no! for hopes too long delay'd, And feelings blasted or betray'd, The fabled bliss destroy; And youth remembers with a sigh The careless days of infancy. Maturer manhood now arrives,
And other thoughts come on;
But with the baseless hopes of Youth
Its generous warmth is gone;
Cold calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye,
Remembering with an envious sigh
The happy dreams of youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our mortal pilgrimage,
With feeble step and slow;
New ills that latter stage await,
And old experience learns too late
That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by,
Its idle hopes are o'er,
Yet age remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
The weary winds forget to blow,
And all the world lies still.
The way-worn travellers, with delight,
The rising brightness see,
Revealing all the paths and plains,
And gilding every tree.
It glistens where the hurrying stream
Its little ripple leaves;
It falls upon the forest-shade,
And sparkles on the leaves.
So once, on Judah's evening hills,
The heavenly lustre spread,
The Gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.
And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendour throws:
Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.
The waning moon, in time, shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;
But God hath warmed this bright light
With fire that never dies.
The weary winds forget to blow,
And all the world lies still.
The way-worn travellers, with delight,
The rising brightness see,
Revealing all the paths and plains,
And gilding every tree.
It glistens where the hurrying stream
Its little ripple leaves;
It falls upon the forest-shade,
And sparkles on the leaves.
So once, on Judah's evening hills,
The heavenly lustre spread,
The Gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.
And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendour throws:
Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.
The waning moon, in time, shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;
But God hath warmed this bright light
With fire that never dies.
Where few shall be the feet that tread, With reckless haste, upon my grave; And gently, o'er my last, still bed,
To whispering winds, the grass shall wave.
The wild flowers, too, I loved so well,
Shall blow and breathe their sweetness there,
And all around my grave shall tell,
"She felt that nature's face was fair."
And those that come because they loved
The mouldering frame that lies below,
Shall find their anguish half removed,
While that sweet spot shall soothe their woe.
The notes of happy birds alone
Shall there disturb the silent air;
And when the cheerful sun goes down,
His beams shall linger longest there.
And if,-when soft night breezes wake,
Roving among the sleeping flowers,
When dews their airy home forsake,
To rest till morn in earthly bowers,-
If, then, some dearer friend than all
Steal to my grave to weep awhile,
And happier hours awhile recall,
And bid fond memory beguile
The tediousness of cherished grief-
Faintly descried-a fading ray-
My passing ghost shall breathe relief,
And whisper-"Lingerer, come away!"
WHEN breath and sense have left this clay, In yon damp vault, O, lay me not!
But kindly bear my bones away
To some lone, green, and sunny spot;
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